IGOURNEYS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 


Estate  of  S.  H.  Cowell 


z: 


- 


"i  tDT  DD^r\^  r 
J_Q5 1  cdxljJ  _  L . 


ILLUSTRATED  POEMS 


MRS.  L.  H.  \SIGOURNEY. 


DESIGNS     BY     FELIX    0.    C.    PARLEY, 


ENGRAVED    BY    AMERICAN    ARTISTS. 


NEW     YORK: 

ALLEN      BROTHERS. 

1869. 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  TEAR  IS69,  BY  ALLEN 
BROTHERS,  IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE  OF  TUE  DISTRICT  COURT  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES  FOB,  THE  SOUTHERN  DISTRICT  OF  NEW  YORK. 


Add  to  Libt 
GIFT 


r    *s  *~  v<j  u 


€ts  laimitl  JUjtrj, 

TIfE    MOST    VENERABLE    POET    OP    EUROPE, 
AND    THE    FRIEND    OF    AMERICA, 

WHOSE   STRAINS,   READ    IN    THE    SOLITUDE   OF    EARLY    YEARS, 

AND    WHOSE    KIND     WORDS    TO    THE     STRANGER     IN     HIS     OWN     HOME 

ARE    ALIKE    HELD    AMONG    THE 

"^UasurfS  of  JKemorg," 

THIS   VOLUME   IS    RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED. 


820 


PREFACE. 

THE  edition  now  presented  to  the  public 
comprises  selections  from  previous  volumes,  poems 
that  have  appeared  only  in  a  fugitive  form,  and 
others  that  have  never  before  been  indebted  to 
the  ministry  of  the  press. 

It  is  hoped  that  its  tripartite  character  may 
not  be  displeasing  to  the  reader,  since  the  ^genius 
of  the  artist  and  the  taste  of  the  publisher  have 
lent  their  powerful  aid  to  render  it  attractive. 
In  the  alcove  of  the  library,  on  the  centre-table 
of  the  matron,  to  the  ear  of  the  young  and  beau 
tiful,  it  shall  breathe  only  pure  thoughts,  like 
the  dew-drops  lingering  upon  the  rose.  May  it 
b^  found  worthy  to  touch  some  chord  of  that 
spirit-irjtercourse,  to  be  perfected  in  a  clime  where 
the  rose  never  fades,  and  the  music-strain  is  im 
mortal. 

7 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Oriska ' 17 

The  Return  of  Napoleon  from  St.  Helena 29 

Unspoken  Language 34 

No  Concealment 40 

Abraham  at  Machpelah 43 

The  Needle,  Pen,  and  Sword 4C 

The  Thrush 51 

The  Ancient  Family  Clock 54 

Fruitful  Autumn 59 

The  Old  Elms 62 

To-Morrow 66 

Eve 72 

Connecticut  River 76 

Bell  of  the  Wreck 81 

Winter  and  Age 84 

Birds  of  Passage 86 

Parting  of  the  Widow's  Son 90 

Aaron  on  Mount  Hor 92 

Advertisement  of  a  Lost  Day 97 

The  Early  Blue-Bird 99 

The  Ark  and  Dove 101 

The  Lobelia  Cardinalis 104 

Farewell  to  the  Flowers 108 

Storm-Sails 110 

7 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Scottish  Weaver 112 

Niagara 134 

The  Coral  Insect 137 

The  Sunday-School 13D 

The  Indian  Summer 141 

The  Hermit  of  the  Falls 143 

The  Butterfly 150 

Solitude 151 

The  Second  Birth-day 153 

The  Dead  Horseman 155 

To  a  Shred  of  Linen 159 

Farewell  to  a  Rural  Residence 163 

Barzillai  the  Gileadite 167 

Gossip  with  a  Bouquet 170 

Erin's  Daughter 175 

The  Holy  Dead 177 

Dew-Drops 179 

Pocahontas 181 

The  Little  Footstep 210 

Scotland's  Famine 213 

The  Passing  Bell 216 

The  Western  Emigrant 220 

The  Deaf,  Dumb,  and  Blind  Girl  at  a  Festival 224 

No  God 230 

The  Mourning  Daughter 232 

Indian  Names       . 237 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body 239 

Winter's  Fete 242 

\nna  Boleyn 246 

Recollections  of  an  Aged  Pastor 249 

'Falls  of  the  Yantic 252 

Widow  at  her  Daughter's  Bridal 255 

Marriage  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 257 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Friends  of  Man 259 

To  a  Goose 264 

On  the  Admission  of  Michigan  into  the  Union 2G8 

Stratford  upon  Avon 271 

Midnight  Thoughts  at  Sea 275 

The  Tomb 277 

"Show  us  the  Father" 279 

Napoleon  at  St.  Helena 281 

Columbia's  Ships 286 

Alpine  Flowers 289 

The  Trial  of  the  Dead 291 

Bread  in  the  Wilderness 298 

On  Transplanting  a  Daisy  from  Runimede 301 

The  Gift  of  Apollo 303 

Benevolence 305 

Bernardino  du  Born 307 

Morn  and  Even 310 

The  Emigrant  Mother 313 

Healing  at  Sunset 319 

Death  of  an  Infant 321 

Filial  Piety  of  David 323 

The  Ivy 327 

The  Aged  Bishop 330 

The  Rainbow 334 

The  Thriving  Family 336 

Flowers  in  Childhood  and  Age 339 

The  Divided  Burden 341 

The  Infant's  Prayer 344 

The  Victim  of  the  Deep 345 

Harold  and  Tosti .  349 

Dreams 355 

The  Clock  at  Versailles   .     .     .     ,    , 353 

Heaven's  Lesson . 


10  CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Prince  of  Edom 363 

The  Widowed  Mother 366 

The  Wish  of  the  Weary  Woman 367 

The  First  Missionary 370 

A  Father  to  his  Motherless  Children           .     .                    ...  373 

»« Sorrow  as  on  the  Sea" 375 

Mutations 379 

Our  Country 382 

Removal  of  an  Ancient  Mansion 386 

The  Lost  Lily 391 

Twilight 399 

The  Unrifled  Cabinet 401 

Talk  with  Time  at  the  Close  of  the  Year 403 

Man's  Three  Guests .405 


LIST  OF  THE  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


DESIGNED     BY    DAELEY. 


PORTRAIT   OF   THE   AUTHORESS. 

(To face,  Title.) 

ENGRAVED     BY    CHENEY    AND    ARMSTRONG     FROM    A    MINIATURE 
BY    FREEMAN. 


A  LANDSCAPE. 

(Title-Page.) 
ENGRAVED    BY  W.    H.    DOTJGAL. 


THE   ANCIENT  FAMILY   CLOCK. 

ENGRAVED    BY  TT.    HUMPHRYS. 

"  Soft  tales  have  lovers  told 
Into  the  thrilling  ear, 
Till  midnight's  witching  hour  wax'd  old, 
Deeming  themselves  alone,  while  thou  wert  near." 

The,  Ancient  Family  Clock,  p.  55. 

11 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE     SCOTTISH     WEAVER. 

ENGRAVED    BY    W.    HUMPHRYS. 

"Yet  joyous  was  the  hour  when  they, 

With  shout  and  gambol  fleet, 
Went  bounding  from  the  cottage  door 
The  approaching  sire  to  greet." 

The  Scottish  Weaver,  p.  122. 


THE     INDIAN     SUMMER. 

ENGRAVED  BY  HUMPHRYS  AND  WILLMORE. 

"No.    When  the  groves 
Tn  fleeting  colours  wrote  their  own  decay, 
And  leaves  fell  eddying  on  the  sharpen'd  blast 
That  sang  their  dirge." 

The  Indian  Summer,  p.  141. 


ERIN'S     DAUGHTER. 


ENGRAVED    BY    W.    HUMPHRYS. 


"Poor  Erin's  daughter  cross'd  the  main 

In  youth's  unfolding  prime, 
A  lot  of  servitude  to  bear 
In  this  our  western  clime." 

Erin's  Daughter,  p.  175. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE     AGED     PASTOR. 


ENGRAVED    BY    W.    HUMPHRYS. 


"Often  have  we  hush'd 
The  shrillest  echo  of  our  holiday, 
Turning  our  mirth  to  reverence  as  he  pass'd, 
And^  eager  to  record  one  favouring  smile, 
Or  word  paternal." 

Recollections  of  an  Aged  Pastor,  p.  249 


THE     DIVIDED     BURDEN. 


ENGRAVED    BY    R.    HINSHELWOOD 


"A  while  he  paused 

And  set  his  hurden  down,  just  where  the  path 
Grew  more  precipitous,  and  wiped  his  hrow 
With  his  worn  sleeve." 

TJie  Divided  Burden,  p.  341. 


THE     BEAUTIFUL     MAID. 

ENGRAVED    BY    W.    HUMPHRYS. 

'I  saw  a  gentle  maid  with  heauty  bless'd, 
In  youth  resplendent,  and  by  love  caress'd 
Her  clustering  hair  in  sunny  ringlets  glow'd, 
Her  red  lips  moved,  and  thrilling  music  flow'd." 

Mutations,  p.  380. 
B 


POEMS. 


MRS.  SIGOURNEY'S  POEMS 


ORISKA. 

FAR  in  the  west,  where  still  the  red  man  held 
His  rights  unrifled,  dwelt  an  aged  chief, 
With  his  young  daughter.     Joyous  as  a  bird, 
She  found  her  pastime  mid  the  forest  shades, 
Or  with  a  graceful  vigour  urged  her  skiff 
O'er  the  bright  waters.     The  bold  warriors  mark'd 
Her  opening  charms,  but  deem'd  her  still  a  child, 
Or  fear'd  from  their  grave  kingly  chief  to  ask 
The  darling  of  his  age. 

A  stranger  came 

To  traffic  with  the  people,  and  amass 
Those  costly  furs  which  in  his  native  clime 
Transmute  so  well  to  gold.     The  blood  of  France 
Was  in  his  veins,  and  on  his  lips  the  wile 
That  wins  the  guileless  heart.     Ofttimes  at  eve 
He  sought  the  chieftain's  dwelling,  and  allured 

2  B  2  17 


18  ORISKA. 


The  gentle  girl  to  listen  to  his  tale, 

Well  framed  and  eloquent.     "With  practised  glance 

He  saw  the  love-flush  on  her  olive  cheek 

Make  answer  to  him,  though  the  half-hid  brow 

Droop'd  mid  its  wealth  of  tresses. 

"Ah!  I  know 

That  thou  dost  love  to  please  me.     Thou  hast  put 
Thy  splendid  coronet  of  feathers  on. 
How  its  rich  crimson  dazzles  mid  thy  locks, 
Black  as  the  raven's  wing !     Thy  bracelets,  too  ! 
Who  told  thee  thou  wert  beautiful  ?     Hast  seen 
Thy  queenly  features  in  yon  mirror 'd  lake  ? 
Bird  of  the  Sioux  !  let  my  nest  be  thine, 
And  I  will  sing  thee  melodies  that  make 
Midnight  like  morn." 

With  many  a  spell  he  charm' d 
Her  trusting  innocence ;  the  dance,  the  song, 
The  legend,  and  the  lay  of  other  lands; 
And  patient  taught  his  pupil's  lip  to  wind 
The  maze  of  words  with  which  his  native  tongue 
Refines  the  thought.     The  hoary  chieftain  frown' d; 
But  when  the  smooth  Canadian  press' d  his  suit 
To  be  adopted  by  the  tribe,  and  dwell 
Among  them,  as  a  brother  and  a  son, — 
And  when  the  indulgent  sire  observant  read 
The  timid  pleading  of  Oriska's  eye, — 


OR  [SKA.  19 


He  gave  her  tenderly,  with  sacred  rites, 
In  marriage  to  the  stranger. 

Their  sweet  bower 

Rose  like  a  gem  amid  the  rural  scene, 
O'er-canopied  with  trees,  where  countless  birds 
Carol'd  unwearied,  the  gay  squirrel  leap'd, 
And  the  wild-bee  went  singing  to  his  work, 
Satiate  with  luxury.     Through  matted  grass, 
With  silver  foot,  a  frolic  fountain  stole, 
Still  track'd  by  deepening  greenness,  while  afar 
The  mighty  prairie  met  the  bending  skies, — 
A  sea  at  rest,  whose  sleeping  waves  were  flowers. 

Nor  lack'd  their  lowly  dwelling  such  device 
Of  comfort,  or  adornment,  as  the  hand 
Of  gentle  woman,  sedulous  to  please, 
Creates  for  him  she  loves.     For  she  had  hung 
Attentive  on  his  lips,  while  he  described 
The  household  policy  of  prouder  climes ; 
And  with  such  varied  and  inventive  skill 
Caught  the  suggestions  of  his  taste  refined, 
That  the  red  people,  wondering  as  they  gazed 
On  curtain'd  window  and  on  flower-crown'd  vase, 
Carpet  and  cushion'd  chair,  and  board  arranged 
With  care  unwonted,  call'd  her  home  the  court 
Of  their  French  princess. 


20 


ORISKA. 


A  rich  clustering  vine 

Crept  o'er  their  porch,  and  'neath  its  fragrant  shade 
Oriska  sang  her  evening  melodies, 
Tuneful  and  clear  and  deep,  the  echoed  truth 
Of  her  soul's  happiness.     Her  highest  care 
And  dearest  pleasure  was  to  make  his  lot 
Delightful  to  her  lord;  and  he,  well  pleased 
With  the  simplicity  of  fervent  love, 
And  the  high  honour  paid  a  chieftain's  son, 
Roam'd  with  the  hunters  at  his  will,  or  brought 
Birdlings  of  brilliant  plume,  as  trophies  home 
To  his  young  bride. 

Months  fled,  and  with  them  change 
Stole  o'er  his  love.     And  when  Oriska  mark'd 
The  shadow  darkening  on  his  brow,  she  fear'd 
The  rudeness  of  her  nation,  or  perchance 
Her  ignorance  had  err'd,  and  strove  to  do 
His  will  more  perfectly.     And  though  his  moods 
Of  harshness  or  disdain  chill' d  every  joy, 
She  blamed  him  not,  for  unto  her  he  seem'd 
A  higher  being  of  a  nobler  race ; 
And  she  was  proud  and  happy,  might  she  bathe 
His  temples  in  some  fit  of  transient  pain, 
Or  by  a  menial's  toil  advance  the  feast 
Which  still  she  shared  not.     When  his  step  was  heard, 
She  bade  her  beating  heart  be  still,  and  smooth'd 


0  R  I  S  K  A.  21 


The  shining  tresses  he  was  wont  to  praise, 
And  fondly  hasting,  raised  her  babe  to  meet 
His  father's  eye,  contented  if  the  smile 
That  once  was  hers  might  beam  upon  his  child : — 
But  that  last  solace  fail'd,  and  the  cold  glance 
Contemptuously  repress'd  her  toil  of  love. 
And  then  he  came  no  more. 

But  as  she  watch'd 

Night  after  night,  and  question' d  every  hour, 
How  bitterly  those  weeks  arid  years  were  notch'd 
Upon  the  broken  tablet  of  the  soul, 
By  that  forsaken  wife. 

Calm  moonlight  touch' d 
A  fair  Canadian  landscape.     Roof  and  spire, 
And  broad  umbrageous  tree,  were  saturate 
With  liquid  lustre.     O'er  a  lordly  dome, 
Whose  halls  had  late  with  bridal  pomp  been  gay, 
The  silvery  curtains  of  the  summer  night 
Were  folded  quietly. 

A  music-sound 

Broke  forth  abruptly  from  its  threshold  stone, 
Shrill  and  unearthly — not  the  serenade, 
That  thrills  on  beauty's  ear,  but  a  bold  strain. 
Loud  even  to  dissonance,  and  oft  prolonged 
In  low,  deep  cadence,  wonderfully  sad, — 
The  wild  song  of  the  Sioux.     He  who  first 


22  ORISKA. 


Awaking,  caught  that  mournful  melody, 
Shudder'd  with  icy  terror,  as  he  threw 
His  mantle  o'er  him,  and  rush'd  madly  forth 
Into  the  midnight  air. 

"Hence  !  Leave  my  door  ! 
I  know  thee  not,  dark  woman  !     Hence  away  !" 

"Ah  !  let  me  hear  that  voice  !     How  sweet  its  tones 
Fall  on  my  ear,  although  the  words  are  stern. 
Say !  know'st  thou  not  this  boy  ?  Whose  eyes  are  these  ? 
Those  chestnut  clusters  round  the  lifted  brow, — 
Said'st  thou  not  in  his  cradle  they  were  thine?" 

"How  cam'st  thou  here,  Oriska?" 

"We  have  trod 

A  weary  way.     My  father  and  his  men 
Came  on  the  business  of  their  tribe,  and  I, 
Unto  whose  soul  the  midnight  and  the  morn 
Have  been  alike  for  years,  roam'd  restlessly 
A  wanderer  in  their  train,  leading  our  boy. 
My  highest  hope  was  but  to  hear,  perchance, 
That  thou  didst  live ;  and  lo  !  a  blessed  guide 
Hath  shown  me  to  thy  home." 

"  Oriska,  go ! 

I  have  a  bride.     Thou  canst  not  enter  here — 
I'll  come  to  thee  to-morrow." 


ORISKA.  23 


"  Wilt  thou  come  ? 

The  white-hair'd  chief,  I  fear  me,  fades  away 
Unto  the  Spirit-land !" 

"1  bid  thee  hence, 

To  thine  abode.     Have  I  not  said  to  thee 
I'll  come  to-morrow  ?" 

With  a  heavy  heart, 

Through  silent  streets,  the  sad-brow'd  woman  went. 
Leading  her  child. 

Morn  came,  and  day  declined, 
Yet  still  he  came  not.     By  her  sire  she  watch'd, 
O'er  whose  dull  eye  a  filmy  shadow  stole, 
While  to  her  troubled  question  no  reply 
Rose  from  his  palsied  lip.     Nature  and  age 
Slept  wearily  and  long.     The  second  eve 
Darken' d  the  skies,  when  lo  !  a  well-known  step — 
He  stood  before  her. 

"Was  it  kind  of  thee, 
Oriska,  thus  to  break  my  bridal  hour 
With  thy  strange,  savage  music  ?" 

"Was  thy  wife 

Angry  at  the  poor  Indian  ?     Not  to  speak 
Harsh  words  I  came :  I  would  not  think  of  thee 
A  thought  of  blame.     But  oh  !  mine  aged  sire, 
Thou  see'st  him  dying  in  this  stranger-land, 
Far  from  his  fathers'  graves.     Be  thou  a  friend 


24  O  R I S  K  A 


When  he  is  gone  and  I  am  desolate. 

Make  me  a  household  servant  to  thy  wife. 

I'll  bring  her  water  from  the  purest  spring, 

And  plant  the  corn,  and  ply  the  flying  oar, 

And  never  be  impatient  or  require 

Payment  from  her,  nor  kind  regard  from  thee. 

I  will  not  call  thee  husband, — though  thou  taught'st 

My  stammering  lip  that  word  when  love  was  young, — 

Nor  ask  one  pitying  look  or  favouring  tone, 

Or  aught,  except  to  serve  and  pray  for  thee 

To  the  Great  Spirit.     And  this  boy  shall  do 

Her  will,  and  thine." 

The  pale  face  turn'd  away 
With  well-dissembled  anger,  though  remorse 
Gnaw'd  at  his  callous  bosom  ! 

"  Urge  me  not ' 
It  cannot  be  !" 

Even  more  he  might  have  said 
Basely  and  bitterly,  but  lo  !  the  chief 
Cast  off  the  ice  of  death,  and  on  his  bed, 
With  clenched  hand  and  quivering  lip,  uprose : — 

"His  curse  be  on  thee !     He,  who  knoweth  where 
The  lightnings  hide !" 

Around  the  old  man's  neck 
Fond  arms  were  wildly  thrown.     "  Oh,  curse  him  not ! 


ORISKA.  25 


The  father  of  my  boy."     And  blinding  tears 
Fell  down  so  fast,  she  mark'd  not  with  what  haste 
The  white-brow'd  recreant  fled. 

"I  tell  thee,  child, 

The  cold  black  gall-drop  in  a  traitor's  soul 
Doth  make  a  curse.     And  though  I  curse  him  not, 
The  sun  shall  hate  him,  and  the  waters  turn 
To  poison  in  his  veins. 

But  light  grows  dim. 

Go  back  to  thine  own  people.     Look  no  more 
On  him  whom  I  have  cursed,  and  lay  my  bones 
Where  my  dead  fathers  sleep." 

A  hollow  groan, 

Wrung  by  extremest  agony,  broke  forth 
From  the  old  chieftain's  breast. 

"Daughter,  I  go 
To  the  Great  Spirit." 

O'er  that  breathless  clay 

Bow'd  down  the  desolate  woman.     No  complaint, 
No  sigh  of  grief  burst  forth.     The  tear  went  back 
To  its  deep  fountain.     Lip  and  fringed  lid 
Trembled  no  more  than  in  the  statued  bronze, 
Nor  shrank  one  truant  nerve,  as  o'er  her  pass'd 
The  asphyxia  of  the  heart. 

Day  after  day, 
O'er  wild  and  tangled  forest,  moved  a  train, 


26  ORISKA. 


Bearing  with  smitten  hearts  their  fallen  chief; 

And  next  the  bier  a  silent  woman  trod, 

A  child's  young  hand  forever  clasp' d  in  hers, 

And  on  her  lip  no  sound.     Long  was  the  way, 

Ere  the  low  roof-trees  of  their  tribe  they  saw 

Sprinkling  the  green ;  and  loud  the  funeral  wail 

Rose  for  the  honour 'd  dead,  who,  in  his  youth, 

Their  battles  led,  and  in  his  wintry  years 

Had  won  that  deeper  reverence,  which  so  well 

The  forest-sons  might  teach  our  wiser  race 

To  pay  to  hoary  age.     Beneath  the  mounds, 

Where  slept  his  ancient  sires,  they  laid  him  down ; 

And  there  the  gather 'd  nation  mourn' d  their  sire, 

In  the  wild  passion  of  untutor'd  grief; 

Then  smoothed  the  pillow'd  turf,  and  went  their  way, 


Who  is  yon  woman,  in  her  dark  canoe, 
Who  strangely  towards  Niagara's  fearful  gulf 
Floats  on  unmoved  ? 

Firm  and  erect  she  stands, 
Clad  in  such  bridal  costume  as  befits 
The  daughter  of  a  king.     Tall,  radiant  plumes 
Wave  o'er  her  forehead,  and  the  scarlet  tinge 
Of  her  embroider 'd  mantle,  fleck' d  with  gold. 
Dazzles  amid  the  flood.     Scarce  heaves  her  breast, 


OKISKA.  97 


As  though  the  spirit  of  that  dread  abyss, 
In  terrible  sublimity,  had  quell'd 
All  thought  of  earthly  things. 

Fast  by  her  side 

Stands  a  young,  wondering  boy,  and  from  his  lip, 
Blanching  with  terror,  steals  the  frequent  cry 
Of  "Mother!  Mother!" 

But  she  answereth  not. 

She  speaks  no  more  to  aught  of  earth,  but  pours 
To  the  Great  Spirit,  fitfully  and  wild, 
The  death-song  of  her  people.     High  it  rose 
Above  the  tumult  of  the  tide  that  bore 
The  victims  to  their  doom.     The  boy  beheld 
The  strange,  stern  beauty  in  his  mother's  eye, 
And  held  his  breath  for  awe. 

Her  song  grew  faint, — 

And  as  the  rapids  raised  their  whitening  heads, 
Casting  her  light  oar  to  the  infuriate  tide, 
She  raised  him  in  her  arms,  and  clasp 'd  him  close. 
Then  as  the  boat  with  arrowy  swiftness  drove 
Down  toward  the  unfathom'd  gulf,  while  chilling  spray 
Rose  up  in  blinding  showers,  he  hid  his  head 
Deep  in  the  bosom  that  had  nurtured  him, 
With  a  low,  stifled  sob. 

And  thus  they  took 
Their  awful  pathway  to  eternity. — 


28  ORISKA. 


One  ripple  on  the  mighty  river's  brink, 

Just  where  it,  shuddering,  makes  its  own  dread  plunge, 

And  at  the  foot  of  that  most  dire  abyss 

One  gleam  of  flitting  robe  and  raven  tress 

And  feathery  coronet — and  all  was  o'er, 

Save  the  deep  thunder  of  the  eternal  surge 

Sounding  their  epitaph ! 


THE  RETURN    OF  NAPOLEON.  29 


THE  KETUKN  OF  NAPOLEON 

FROM    ST.    HELENA. 

Ho  !  City  of  the  gay ! 

Paris  !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  million  forth, 

All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fix'd  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-day. 

By  square,  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise, 
And  tower  and  battlement  and  tree 

Are  studded  thick  witlreyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  triumph  from  the  fight, 
With  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 


30  THE   RETURN   OF   NAPOLEON. 

The  "Arc  de  Triomphe"  glows! 

A  martial  host  are  nigh, 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 
No  clarion  marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown ; 
Why  march  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 

Behold  !  in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state  ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds,  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight ; 
And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 

Caparison'd  along, 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

The  incense  flameth  high, — 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old  ? 

No  answer  ! — No  reply  ! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? — 

No  shout  his  minions  raise, 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays. 


THE   RETURN    OF    NAPOLEON.  31 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And  with  uncover'd  head 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France : 

Receiveth  whom? — The  dead! 
Was  he  not  buried  deep 

In  island-cavern  drear; 
Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean  surge  ? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here  ? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 

Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 
That  thus  he  brake  his  stony  tomb, 

Ere  the  strong  angel's  call  ? 
Hark  !  hark  !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain  ! 
An  echo,  never  to  be  heard 

By  mortal  ear  again. 

A  requiem  for  the  chief, 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew, 
The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crush'd  at  Waterloo : — 
The  banish'd  who  return'd, 

The  dead  whcr  rose  again, 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 


39  THE   RETURN   OF   NAPOLEON. 

They  laid  him  there  in  state, 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold, 
The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 

Upon  his  ashes  cold, 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazon'd  banners  wave, 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave ; 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 

His  veterans  scarr'd  and  old, 
Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge 

Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 
Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 
Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 

Those  veterans  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife 

Where  their  country's  legions  fled  ? 
Of  Borodino's  blood  ? 

Of  Beresina's  wail  ? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turn'd  old  History  pale  ? 


THE   RETURN  OF   NAPOLEON.  33 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow, — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Mark'd  the  poor  conscripts'  grave, 
And,  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave. 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 

The  gather 'd  darkness  mock, 
And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 

On  bare  Helena's  rock; 
And  from  the  altar  near, 

A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 

Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  one,  and  proud ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 

Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 
Oh,  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what  thy  God's  to  thee  ? 


Paris.  Tuesdav.  Dec.  15.  1840. 


34  UNSPOKEN   LANGUAGE. 


UNSPOKEN  LANGUAGE. 

LANGUAGE  is  slow.     The  mastery  of  wants 
Doth  teach  it  to  the  infant,  drop  by  drop, 
As  brooklets  gather. 

Years  of  studious  toil 
Unfold  its  classic  labyrinths  to  the  boy ; 
Perchance  its  idioms  and  its  sequences 
May  wear  the  shadow  of  the  lifted  rod, 
And  every  rule  of  syntax  leave  its  tear 
For  Memory's  tablet. 

He  who  would  acquire 

The  speech  of  many  lands,  must  make  the  lamp 
His  friend  at  midnight,  while  his  fellows  sleep, 
Bartering  to  dusty  lexicons  and  tomes 
The  hour-glass  of  his  life. 

Yet,  there's  a  lore, 

Simple  and  sure,  that  asks  no  discipline 
Of  weary  years, — the  language  of  the  soul, 
Told  through  the  eye. 

The  mother  speaks  it  well 


UNSPOKEN   LANGUAGE.  35 

To  the  unfolding  spirit  of  her  babe, 
The  lover  to  the  lady  of  his  heart, 
At  the  soft  twilight  hour,  the  parting  soul 
Unto  the  angels  hovering  o'er  its  couch, 
With  Heaven's  high  welcome. 

Oft  the  stammering  lip 

Marreth  the  perfect  thought,  and  the  dull  ear 
Doth  err  in  its  more  tortuous  embassy; 
But  the  heart's  lightning  hath  no  obstacle ; 
Quick  glances,  like  the  thrilling  wires,  transfuse 
The  telegraphic  thought. 

The  wily  tongue, 

To  achieve  its  purpose,  may  disguise  itself, 
Oft,  'neath  a  glozing  mask ;  and  written  speech 
Invoke  the  pomp  of  numbers  to  enrich 
Its  dialect;  but  this  ambassador 
From  soul  to  sense  may  wear  the  plainest  suit, — 
Ebon  or  hazel,  azure-tint  or  gray, 
It  matters  not :  the  signet-ring  of  truth 
Doth  give  him  credence. — 

Once,  old  Ocean  raged; 

And  a  vex'd  ship,  by  maddening  waves  impell'd, 
Rush'd  on  the  breakers.     Mid  the  wild  turmoil 
Of  rock  and  wave,  the  trumpet-clang,  and  tramp 
Of  hurrying  seamen,  and  the  fearful  shock 
With  which  the  all-astonish'd  mind  resigns 


36  UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE. 

The  hope  of  life,  a  mother  with  her  babe 

Sate  in  the  cabin.     He  was  all  to  her, 

The  sole  companion  of  her  watery  way, 

And  nestling  towards  her  bosom,  raised  his  face 

Upward  to  hers. 

Her  raven  hair  fell  down 
In  masses  o'er  her  shoulders,  while  her  eyes 
Fix'd  with  such  deep  intensity,  that  his 
Absorb'd  their  rays  of  thought,  and  seem'd  to  draw 
The  soul  mature,  with  all  its  burdening  cares, 
Its  wondrous  knowledge,  and  mysterious  strength, 
Into  his  baby-bosom. 

Word  nor  sound 

Pass'd  'tween  that  mother  and  her  youngling  child,- 
Too  young  to  syllable  the  simplest  name, — 
And  yet,  methought,  they  interchanged  a  vow 
Calmly  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep 
Together  to  go  down,  and  that  her  arm 
Should  closely  clasp  him  mid  its  coral  caves. 
The  peril  pass'd;  but  the  deep  eloquence 
Of  that  communion  might  not  be  forgot. 


A  youth  and  maiden,  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
Roved,  mid  the  vernal  flowers.     At  distance  rose 
The  towers  of  Abbotsford,  among  the  trees, 


UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE.  37 

Which  he,  the  great  magician,  who  at  will 
Could  summon  "spirits  from  the  vasty  deep," 
Had  loved  to  plant. 

Methought  of  him  they  spake, 
Disporting  in  the  fields  of  old  romance 
With  Ivanhoe,  or  the  proud  knight  who  fell 
At  Flodden-field.     Then,  as  the  sun  drew  low, 
They  sate  them  down,  where  the  fresh  heather  grew, 
Listing,  perchance,  the  descant  of  the  birds, 
Or  ripple  of  the  stream.     The  hazel  eye 
Of  the  young  dweller  'neath  the  Eildon-Hills 
Perused  the  fair  one's  brow,  till  o'er  it  stole 
A  deeper  colouring  than  the  rose-leaf  tinge. 
— Speech  ^ihere  was  none,  nor  gesture,  yet  the  depth 
Of  some  unutter'd  dialect  did  seem 
Well  understood  by  them.     And  so  they  rose, 
And  went  their  way. 

There  was  a  crowded  kirk, 
But  not  for  Sabbath  Worship.     With  the  train 
Was  more  of  mirth  than  might,  perchance,  beseem 
Such  sacred  place.     Wreaths  too  there  were,  and  knots 
Of  marriage-favour,  and  a  group  that  prest 
Before  the  altar.     And  the  trembling  lip 
Of  that  young  white-robed  bride,  murmuring  the  vow 
To  love  till  death  should  part,  interpreted 


38  UNSPOKEN    LANGUAGE. 

That  strong  and  voiceless  language  of  the  eye 
Upon  the  banks  of  Tweed. — 

I  had  a  friend 

Beloved  in  halcyon  days,  whom  stern  disease 
Smote  ere  her  prime. 

In  curtain'd  room  she  dwelt, 
A  lingerer,  while  each  waning  moon  convey'd 
Some  treasured  leaflet  of  our  hope  away. 
The  power  that  with  the  tissued  lungs  doth  dwell, 
Sweetly  to  wake  the  modulating  lip, 
Was  broken, — but  the  violet-tinctured  eye 
Acquired  new  pathos. 

When  the  life-tide  crept 

Cold  through  its  channels,  o'er  her  couch  I  bent. 
There  was  no  sound.     But  in  the  upraised  glance 
Her  loving  heart  held  converse,  as  with  forms 
Not  of  this  outer  world.     Unearthly  smiles 
Gave  earnest  beauty  to  the  pallid  brow ; 
While  ever  and  anon  the  emaciate  hand 
Spread  its  white  fingers,  as  it  fain  would  clasp 
Some  object  hovering  near. 

The  last  faint  tone 

Was  a  fond  sister's  name,  one  o'er  whose  grave 
The  turf  of  years  had  gather'd.     Was  she  there, — 
That  disembodied  dear  one  ?     Did  she  give 


UNSPOKEN   LANGUAGE. 


39 


The  kiss  of  welcome  to  the  occupant 
Of  her  own  infant  cradle  ? 

So  'twould  seem. 

But  that  fix'd  eye  no  further  answer  deign' d, 
Its  earthly  mission  o'er.     Henceforth  it  spake 
The  spirit-lore  of  immortality. 


40  NO  CONCEALMENT. 


NO  CONCEALMENT. 


'There  is  nothing  covered,  that  shall  not  he  revealed;  and  hid,  that  shall  not  be  knownJ 

ST.  MATTHEW. 


THINK'ST  thou  to  be  conceal'd,  thou  little  stream  ! 

That  through  the  lowly  vale  dost  wind  thy  way, 
Loving  beneath  the  darkest  arch  to  glide 

Of  woven  branches,  blent  with  hillocks  gray  ? 
The  mist  doth  track  thee,  and  reveal  thy  course 

Unto  the  dawn,  and  a  bright  line  of  green 
Tingeth  thy  marge,  and  the  white  flocks  that  haste 

At  summer-noon,  to  drink  thy  crystal  sheen, 
Make  plain  thy  wanderings  to  the  eye  of  day ; 

And  then  thy  smiling  answer  to  the  moon, 
Whose  beams  so  freely  on  thy  bosom  sleep, 

Unfold  thy  secret,  even  to  night's  dull  noon. 
How  couldst  thou  hope,  in  such  a  world  as  this, 
To  shroud  thy  gentle  path  of  beauty  and  of  bliss  ? 


NO   CONCEALMENT.  41 

Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal' d,  thou  little  seed ! 

That  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  art  cast, 
And  there,  like  cradled  infant,  sleep'st  awhile, 

Unmoved  by  trampling  storm,  or  thunder  blast  ? 
Thou  bidest  thy  time,  for  herald  spring  shall  come 

And  wake  thee,  all  unwilling  as  thou  art, 
Unhood  thine  eyes,  unfold  thy  clasping  sheath, 

And  stir  the  languid  pulses  of  thy  heart. 
The  loving  rains  shall  woo  thee,  and  the  dews 

Weep  o'er  thy  bed,  till,  ere  thou  art  aware, 
Forth  steals  the  tender  leaf,  the  wiry  stem, 

The  trembling  bud,  the  flower  that  scents  the  air ; 
And  soon,  to  all,  thy  ripen'd  fruitage  tells 
The  evil  or  the  good  that  in  thy  nature  dwells. 

Think'st  thou  to  be  conceal' d,  thou  little  thought ! 

That  in  the  curtain' d  chamber  of  the  soul 
Dost  wrap  thyself  so  close,  and  dream  to  do 

A  hidden  work  ?     Look  to  the  hues  that  roll 
O'er  the  changed  brow,  the  moving  lip  behold, 

Linking  thee  unto  sound,  the  feet  that  run 
Upon  thine  errands,  and  the  deeds  that  stamp 

Thy  likeness  plain  before  the  noonday  sun. 
Look  to  the  pen  that  writes  thy  history  down 

In  those  tremendous  books  that  ne'er  unclose 


42  NO   CONCEALMENT. 

Until  the  Day  of  Doom ;  and  blush  to  see 

How  vain  thy  trust  in  darkness  to  repose, 
Where  all  things  tend  to  judgment.     So  beware, 
Oh  erring  human  heart,  what  thoughts  thou  lodgest  there, 


ABRAHAM    AT    MACHPELAH.  43 


ABEAHAM  AT  MACHPELAH. 

DENSELY  wrapp'd  in  shades, 
Olive  and  terebinth,  its  vaulted  door 
Fleck'd  with  the  untrain'd  vine  and  matted  grass, 
Behold  Machpelah's  cave. 

Hark  !  hear  we  not 

A  voice  of  weeping  ?     Lo,  yon  aged  man 
Bendeth  beside  his  dead.     Wave  after  wave 
Of  memory  rises,  till  his  lonely  heart 
Sees  all  its  treasures  floating  on  the  flood, 
Like  rootless  weeds. 

The  earliest  dawn  of  love 
Is  present  with  him,  and  a  form  of  grace 
Whose  beauty  held  him  ever  in  its  thrall : 
And  then  the  morn  of  marriage,  gorgeous  robes, 
And  dulcet  music,  and  the  rites  that  bless 
The  Eastern  bride.     Full  many  a  glowing  scene, 
Made  happy  by  her  tenderness,  returns 
To  mock  his  solitude. 

Again  their  home 


44  ABRAHAM    AT    MACHPELAH. 

Gleams  through  the  oaks  of  Mamre.     There  he  sat, 
Rendering  due  rites  of  hospitality 
To  guests  who  bore  the  folded  wing  of  heaven 
Beneath  their  vestments.     And  her  smile  was  there 
Among  the  angels. 

When  her  clustering  curls 

Wore  Time's  chill  hoar-frost,  with  what  glad  surprise, 
What  holy  triumph  of  exulting  faith, 
He  saw,  fresh  blooming  in  her  wither'd  arms, 
A  fair  young  babe,  the  heir  of  all  his  wealth. 
Forever  blending  with  that  speechless  joy 
Which  thrill' d  his  soul  when  first  a  father's  name 
Fell  on  his  ear,  is  that  pale,  placid  brow 
O'er  which  he  weeps. 

Yet  had  he  seen  it  wear 

Another  semblance,  tinged  with  hues  of  thought, 
Perchance,  unlovely,  in  that  trial-hour 
When  to  sad  Hagar's  mute,  reproachful  eye 
He  answer'd  nought,  but  on  her  shoulder  bound 
The  cruse  of  water  and  the  loaf,  and  sent 
Her  and  her  son,  unfriended  wanderers  forth 
Into  the  wilderness. 

Say,  who  can  mourn 
Over  the  smitten  idol,  by  long  years 
Cemented  with  his  being,  yet  perceive 
No  dark  remembrance  that  he  fain  would  blot, 


ABRAHAM   AT   MACHPELAH.  45 

Troubling  the  tear  ?     If  there  were  no  kind  deed 
Omitted,  no  sweet  healing  word  of  love 
Expected,  yet  unspoken;  no  sharp  tone, 
That  jarr'd  discordant  on  the  quivering  nerve, 
For  which  the  weeper  fain  would  rend  the  tomb 
To  cry,  "Forgive  !"     oh  !  let  him  kneel  and  praise 
God  amid  all  his  grief. 

We  may  not  say 

If  aught  of  penitence  was  in  the  pang 
That  wrung  his  labouring  breast,  while  o'er  the  dust 
Of  Sarah,  at  Machpelah's  waiting  tomb, 
The  proud  and  princely  Abraham  bow'd  him  down, 
A  mourning  stranger,  mid  the  sons  of  Heth. 


46  THE   NEEDLE,  PEN,   AND   SWORD. 


THE  NEEDLE,  PEN,  AND  SWORD. 

WHAT  hast  thou  seen,  with  thy  shining  eye, 

Thou  Needle,  so  subtle  and  keen  ? — 
"I  have  been  in  Paradise,  stainless  and  fair. 

And  fitted  the  apron  of  fig-leaves  there, 
To  the  form  of  its  fallen  queen. 

"  The  mantles  and  wimples,  the  hoods  and  veils, 

That  the  belles  of  Judah  wore, 
When  their  haughty  mien  and  their  glance  of  fire 
Enkindled  the  eloquent  prophet's  ire, 

I  help'd  to  fashion  of  yore. 

"  The  beaded  belt  of  the  Indian  maid 

I  have  deck'd  with  as  true  a  zeal 
As  the  gorgeous  run0  of  the  knight  of  old, 
Or  the  monarch's  mantle  of  purple  and  gold, 

Or  the  satrap's  broider'd  heel. 

"  I  have  lent  to  Beauty  new  power  to  reign, 
At  bridal  and  courtly  hall, 


THE  NEEDLE,  PEN,  AND  SWORD  47 

Or  wedded  to  Fashion,  have  help'd  to  bind 
Those  gossamer  links,  that  the  strongest  mind 
Have  sometimes  held  in  thrall. 

"  I  have  drawn  a  blood-drop,  round  and  red, 

From  the  finger  small  and  white 
Of  the  startled  child,  as  she  strove  with  care 
Her  doll  to  deck  with  some  gewgaw  rare, 

But  wept  at  my  puncture  bright. 

"  I  have  gazed  on  the  mother's  patient  brow, 

As  my  utmost  speed  she  plied, 
To  shield  from  winter  her  children  dear, 
And  the  knell  of  midnight  smote  her  ear, 
While  they  slumber'd  at  her  side. 

"  I  have  heard  in  the  hut  of  the  pining  poor 

The  shivering  inmate's  sigh, 
When  faded  the  warmth  of  her  last,  faint  brand, 
As  slow  from  her  cold  and  clammy  hand 

She  let  me  drop, — to  die!" 


What  dost  thou  know,  thou  gray  goose-quill  ? — 

And  methought,  with  a  spasm  of  pride, 
It  sprang  from  the  inkstand,  arid  fluttered  in  vain, 


48  THE   NEEDLE,   PEN,  AND   SWORD. 

Its  nib  to  free  from  the  ebon  stain, 
As  it  fervently  replied : 

"  What  do  I  know  ! — Let  the  lover  tell 

When  into  his  secret  scroll 
He  poureth  the  breath  of  a  magic  lyre, 
And  traceth  those  mystical  lines  of  fire 

That  move  the  maiden's  soul. 

"  What  do  I  know  ! — The  wife  can  say, 

As  the  leaden  seasons  move, 
And  over  the  ocean's  wildest  sway, 
A  blessed  missive  doth  wend  its  way, 

Inspired  by  a  husband's  love. 

"  Do  ye  doubt  my  power  ?     Of  the  statesman  ask, 

Who  buffets  ambition's  blast, — 
Of  the  convict,  who  shrinks  in  his  cell  of  care, 
A  flourish  of  mine  hath  sent  him  there, 
And  lock'd  his  fetters  fast ; 

"  And  a  flourish  of  mine  can  his  prison  ope, 

From  the  gallows  its  victim  save, 
Break  off  the  treaty  that  kings  have  bound, 
Make  the  oath  of  a  nation  an  empty  sound, 
And  to  liberty  lead  the  slave. 


THE  NEEDLE,  PEN,  AND  SWORD.        49 

"  Say,  what  were  History,  so  wise  and  old, 

And  Science  that  reads  the  sky  ? 
Or  how  could  Music  its  sweetness  store, 
Or  Fancy  and  Fiction  their  treasures  pour. 
Or  what  were  Poesy's  heaven-taught  lore, 

Should  the  pen  its  aid  deny  ? 

"  Oh,  doubt  if  ye  will,  that  the  rose  is  fair, 

That  the  planets  pursue  their  way, 
Go,  question  the  fires  of  the  noontide  sun, 
Or  the  countless  streams  that  to  ocean  run, 
But  ask  no  more  what  the  Pen  hath  done." 
And  it  scornfully  turn'd  away. 


What  are  thy  deeds,  thou  fearful  thing 

By  the  lordly  warrior's  side  ? 
And  the  Sword  answer 'd,  stern  and  slow, 
"  The  hearth-stone  lone  and  the  orphan  know, 

And  the  pale  and  widow'd  bride. 

"  The  shriek  and  the  shroud  of  the  battle-cloud, 

And  the  field  that  doth  reek  below, 
The  wolf  that  laps  where  the  gash  is  red, 
And  the  vulture  that  tears  ere  the  life  hath  fled, 

4  E 


50 


THE   NEEDLE,   PEN,   AND   SWORD. 


And  the  prowling  robber  that  strips  the  dead, 
And  the  foul  hyena  know. 

The  rusted  plough,  and  the  seed  unsown, 

And  the  grass  that  doth  rankly  grow 
O'er  the  rotting  limb,  and  the  blood-pool  dark, 
Gaunt  Famine  that  quenches  life's  lingering  spark, 
And  the  black-wing' d  Pestilence  know. 

Death  with  the  rush  of  his  harpy-brood, 

Sad  Earth  in  her  pang  and  throe, 
Demons  that  riot  in  slaughter  and  crime, 
And  the  throng  of  the  souls  sent,  before  their  time, 

To  the  bar  of  the  judgment — know." 


Then  the  terrible  Sword  to  its  sheath  return' d, 

While  the  Needle  sped  on  in  peace, 
But  the  Pen  traced  out  from  a  Book  sublime 
The  promise  and  pledge  of  that  better  time 
When  the  warfare  of  earth  shall  cease. 


THE   THRUSH.  51 


THE  THRUSH. 

"I'LL  pay  my  rent  in  music,"  said  a  thrush 
Who  took  his  lodging  'neath  my  eaves  in  spring, 
Where  the  thick  foliage  droop' d.     And  well  he  kept 
His  simple  contract.     Not  for  quarter-day 
He  coldly  waited,  nor  a  draft  required 
To  stir  his  memory,  nor  my  patience  tried 
With  changeful  currencies,  but  every  morn 
Brought  me  good  notes  at  par,  and  broke  my  sleep 
With  his  sweet-ringing  coin. 

Sometimes,  a  song, 

All  wildly  trilling  through  his  dulcet  pipes, 
Falling,  and  caught  again,  and  still  prolong'd, 
Betray'd  in  what  green  nook  the  warbler  sat, 
Each  feather  quivering  with  excess  of  joy, 
While  from  his  opening  beak  and  brightening  eye 
There  seem'd  to  breathe  a  cadence,  "  This  is  meant 
For  your  especial  benefit."     The  lay 
With  overruling  shrillness  more  than  once 
Did  summon  me  to  lay  my  book  aside 


52  THE   THRUSH. 


And  wait  its  close  ;  nor  was  that  pause  a  loss, 
.  But  seem'd  to  tune  and  shape  the  inward  ear 
To  wisdom's  key-tone. 

Then  I  had  a  share 

In  softer  songs,  that  cheer'd  his  brooding  mate, 
Who,  in  the  patience  of  good  hope,  did  keep 
Her  lengthen' d  vigil ;  and  the  voice  of  love 
That  flow'd  so  fondly  from  his  trusting  soul 
Made  glad  mine  own. 

Then,  too,  there  was  a  strain 
From  blended  throats,  that  to  their  callow  young 
Breathed  tenderness  untold ;  and  the  weak  chirp 
Of  new-born  choristers,  so  deftly  train' d, 
Each  in  the  sweet  way  that  he  ought  to  go, 
Mix'd  with  that  breath  of  household  charities 
Which  makes  the  spirif  strong. 

And  so  I  felt 

My  rent  was  fully  paid,  and  thought  myself 
Quite  fortunate,  in  these  our  times,  to  find 
Such  honest  tenant. 

But  when  autumn  bade 

The  northern  birds  to  spread  their  parting  wing, 
And  that  small  house  was  vacant,  and  o'er  hedge 
And  russet  grove  and  forest  hoar  with  years 
The  hush  of  silence  settled,  I  grew  sad 
To  miss  my  kind  musicians,  and  was  fain 


THE   THRUSH.  53 


To  patronize  with  a  more  fervent  zeal 
Such  fireside  music  as  makes  winter  short, 
And  storms  unheard. 

Yet  leave  within  our  hearts, 
Dear  melodists,  the  spirit  of  your  praise, 
Until  ye  come  again ;  and  the  brown  nest, 
That  now  its  downy  lining  to  the  winds 
Turns  desolate,  shall  thrill  at  your  return 
With  the  loud  welcome  home. 

For  He  who  touch'd 

Your  breasts  with  minstrelsy,  and  every  flower 
With  beauty,  hath  a  lesson  for  his  sons, 
In  all  the  varied  garniture  that  decks 
Life's  banquet-board ;  and  he's  the  wisest  guest 
Who  taketh  gladly  what  his  God  doth  send, 
Keeping  each  instrument  of  joy  in  tune 
That  helps  to  fit  him  for  the  choir  of  Heaven. 


54  THE  ANCIENT   FAMILY  CLOCK. 


THE  ANCIENT  FAMILY  CLOCK. 

So  here  thou  art,  old  friend, 
Ready  thine  aid  to  lend, 

With  honest  face ; 
The  gilded  figures  just  as  bright 

Upon  thy  painted  case, 
As  when  I  ran  with  young  delight 

Their  garniture  to  trace, 

And  though  forbid  thy  burnish' d  robe  to  touch, 
Still  gazed  with  folded  hands,  admiring  long  and  much. 

But  where  is  she  who  sate 
Near  in  her  elbow-chair, 
Teaching  with  patient  care 
Life's  young  beginner,  on  thy  dial  plate 
To  count  the  winged  minutes,  fleet  and  fair, 
And  mark  each  hour  with  deeds  of  love  ? 
Lo,  she  hath  broke  her  league  with  time,  and  found  the 
rest  above. 


Soft  tales  have  1  overs  told 

Into  the  thrill  ing  ear. 
Till  midnight's  witching  hour  waxed  old, 
Deeming  themselves  alone, while  thou'wextnear, 


THE   ANCIENT  FAMILY   CLOCK.  55 

Thrice  welcome,  ancient  crone  ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  gaze  on  thee, 
And  hear  thy  busy  heart  beat  on. 

Come,  tell  old  tales  to  me : 
Old  tales  such  as  I  love,  of  hoar  antiquity. 

Thou  hast  good  store,  I  trow, 

For  laughing  and  for  weeping, 
Things  very  strange  to  know, 

And  none  the  worse  for  keeping. 
Soft  tales  have  lovers  told 

Into  the  thrilling  ear, 
Till  midnight's  witching  hour  wax'd  old, 
Deeming  themselves  alone,  while  thou  wert  near, 
In  thy  sly  corner  hid  sublime, 
With  thy  'tick!'  'tick!'  to  warn  how  Time 

Outliveth  Love,  boasting  itself  divine, 
Yet  fading  ere  the  wreath  which  its  fond  votaries  twine. 

The  unutter'd  hopes  and  fears, 
The  deep-drawn  rapturous  tears 

Of  young  paternity, 
Were  chronicled  by  thee. 

The  nursling's  first  faint  cry, 

Which  from  a  bright-hair 'd  girl  of  dance  and  song, 
The  idol,  incense-fed,  of  an  adoring  throng, 


56  THE   ANCIENT   FAMILY   CLOCK. 

Did  make  a  mother,  with  her  quenchless  eyes 
Of  love,  and  truth,  and  trust,  and  holiest  memories ; 

As  Death's  sharp  ministry 
Robeth  an  angel  when  the  mortal  dies. 

Thy  quick  vibrations  caught 
The  cradled  infant's  ear^ 

And  while  it  scann'd  thy  face  with  curious  fear, 
Thou  didst  awake  the  new-born  thought, 
Peering  through  the  humid  eye, 
Like  star-beam  in  a  misty  sky ; 
Though  the  nurse,  standing  still  more  near, 
Mark'd  but  the  body's  growing  wealth, 

And  praised  that  fair  machine  of  clay, 
Working  in  mystery  and  health 
Its  wondrous  way. 

Thy  voice  was  like  a  knell, 
Chiming  all  mournful  with  the  funeral  bell, 
When  stranger-feet  came  gathering  slow 
To  see  the  master  of  the  mansion  borne 
To  that  last  home,  the  narrow  and  the  low, 
From  whence  is  no  return. 

A  laggard  wert  thou  to  the  impatient  breast 
Of  watching  lover,  or  long-parted  wife, 


THE   ANCIENT   FAMILY   CLOCK.  57 

Counting  each  moment  while  the  day  unblest, 
Like  wounded  snake,  its  length  did  draw ; 

And  blaming  thee,  as  if  the  strife 
Of  wild  emotion  should  have  been  thy  law, 
When  thou  wert  pledged,  in  amity  sublime, 
To  crystal-breasted  truth  and  sky-reporting  time. 

Glad  signal  thou  hast  given 

For  the  gay  bridal,  when  with  flower-wreath' d  hair 
And  flushing  cheek,  the  youthful  pair 
Stand  near  the  priest  with  reverent  air, 

Dreaming  that  earth  is  heaven : — 
And  thou  hast  heralded  with  joyance  fair 
The  green-wreath' d  Christmas,  and  that  other  feast 
With  which  the  hard  lot  of  colonial  care 
The  pilgrim-sire  besprinkled ;  saving  well 
The  golden  pumpkin  and  the  fatted  beast, 

And  round-cheek' d  apple,  with  its  luscious  swell 
Till,  the  thanksgiving  sermon  duly  o'er, 
He  greets  his  children  at  his  humble  door, 
Bidding  them  welcome  to  his  plenteous  hoard, 

As,  gathering  from  their  distant  home, 
To  knit  their  gladden' d  hearts  in  love  they  come, 
Each  with  his  youngling  brood,  round  the  gray  father's 
board. 


58  THE  ANCIENT  FAMILY   CLOCK. 

Thou  hast  outlived  thy  maker,  ancient  clock ! 

He  in  his  cold  grave  sleeps  ;  but  thy  slight  wheels 

Still  do  his  bidding,  yet  his  frailty  mock, 

While  o'er  his  name  oblivion  steals. 
0  Man  !  so  prodigal  of  pride  and  praise, 
Thy  works  survive  thee  ;  dead  machines  perform 
Their  revolution,  while  thy  scythe-shorn  days 
Yield  thee  a  powerless  prisoner  to  the  worm. 
How  darest  thou  sport  with  Time,  while  he 

Plunges  thee  darkly  in  Eternity  ? 
Haste  !  ere  its  awful  wave  engulf  thy  form, 
And   make   thy  peace   with   Him,    who   rules    above   the 
storm. 


FRUITFUL   AUTUMN.  59 


FRUITFUL  AUTUMN. 

AUTUMN  grows  pallid,  and  his  bounteous  course 
Draws  near  its  close,  while  with  a  feeble  hand 
He  languidly  divides  to  those  around 
The  last  love-tokens. 

A  few  brilliant  wreaths — 
Woodbine  and  dahlia,  tinged  with  berries  red 
And  twined  with  night-shade,  and  those  snowy  orbs 
That  cluster  mournful  round  their  naked  stems, 
He  gives  the  children,  and  to  older  friends 
Pointeth  the  rich  bequests  of  better  days, 
Full  granaries  teeming  with  the  golden  ear, 
And  o'er  the  fields  the  abundant  stacks,  where  throng 
The  quiet  flocks  and  herds. 

Art  satisfied, 

Thou  of  the  plough  and  spade  ?     Full  heir  of  all 
The  year's  perfected  bounty,  dost  forget 
The  bounteous  season  at  whose  voice  the  wain 


GO  FRUITFUL    AUTUMN. 

Roll'd  heavy  from  the  harvest  ?     Earth  attests 
His  benefactions. 

But  behold  he  dies  ! 

"Winds  sing  his  dirge,  and  the  brown  leaves  bestrew 
His  pathway  to  the  tomb.     Mourning,  they  say, 
"Remember  how  he  clothed  us  in  bright  robes, 
Crimson  and  gold,  even  as  that  Jewish  king, 
Who  fell  at  Gilboa,  deck'd  with  gorgeous  pride 
Fair  Israel's  daughters." 

Then  the  grass-blades  breathed 
A  lowly  sound,  which  he  who  bow'd  his  ear 
To  their  crisp  foreheads,  caught: — 

"  He  spared  us  long, 

Holding  the  frost-king  back,  that  we  might  cheer 
Man  with  our  simple  beauty.     Not  in  wrath, 
Like  some  who  went  before  him,  did  he  tread 
Upon  our  frailty.     So  we  give  him  thanks." 

Then  the  glad  birds,  from  their  migration  held 
By  his  wrarm  smile,  pour'd  forth  their  grateful  strain : 
"He  gave  us  food,  and  with  no  stinted  hand 
Scatter'd  the  seeds  that  pleased  our  callow  young. 
And  chained  the  howling  blasts  that  ere  the  time 
Were  wont  to  drive  us  from  our  nests  away. 
For  this  we  love  him." 

And  the  bees  replied : — 


FRUITFUL   AUTUMN.  61 


"We  love  him  also,  for  he  spared  the  flowers." 
And  the  brisk  squirrel  mid  his  hoarded  nuts, 
And  the  light  cricket  in  its  evening  song, 
Yea,  the  poor  gadding  house-fly  on  the  wall 
Pronounced  him  pitiful  and  kind  to  them. 

So,  genial  autumn,  in  thy  grave  with  tears, 
As  when  a  good  man  dies,  we  lay  thee  down, 
Covering  thee  with  the  verdure  thou  hast  spared, 
Fresh  sods  and  lingering  flowers. 

Thou  didst  not  trust 

Thy  purposed  goodness  to  another's  hand, 
Cheating  thy  soul  of  the  sweet  bliss  that  flows 
From  pure  philanthropy,  but  day  by  clay 
Aroused  the  labourer  to  his  harvest-song, 
Gladdening  the  gleaner's  heart,  and  o'er  the  board 
Of  the  poor  man  pouring  such  fruits  as  make 
His  meagre  children  happy. 

Thus  like  thine, 
Friend  whom  we  praise,  may  our  own  course  be  found, 

s. 

Not  coldly  trusting  to  a  future  race 

Our  plans  of  charity  to  execute, 

When  we  are  gone ;  but  marking  every  hour 

With  some  new  deed  of  mercy,  may  we  pass, 

Bland,  blessed  Autumn  !  to  our  grave  like  thee, 

Mid  the  green  memories  of  unnumber'd  hearts 


62  THE    OLD    ELMS. 


THE  OLD  ELMS. 

I  DO  remember  me 

Of  two  old  elm-trees'  shade, 
With  mosses  sprinkled  on  their  feet, 

Where  mj  young  childhood  play'd, 
While  the  rocks  above  their  head 

Look'd  down  so  stern  and  gray, 
And  the  merry,  crystal  brooklet 

Went  singing  on  its  way. 

Thus,  side  by  side,  they  flourish' d 

With  intertwining  crown, 
And  through  their  broad,  embracing  arms 

The  prying  moon  look'd  down; 
And  as  I  fondly  linger 'd  there, 

A  musing  child,  alone, 
I  deem'd  my  secret  heart  she  read 

From  her  far  silver  throne. 


THE   OLD   ELMS.  63 

I  well  remember  me 

Of  all  their  wealth  of  leaves, 
When  Summer  in  her  radiant  loom 

The  burning  solstice  weaves, 
And  how  with  firm  endurance 

They  braved  the  adverse  sky, 
Like  Belisarius,  doom'd  to  meet 

His  country's  wintry  eye. 

Through  varied  climes  I've  wander'd, 

Where  stranger  streamlets  run, 
Where  flaunts  the  proud  magnolia  tree 

Beneath  a  southern  sun, 
Or  where  the  sparse  and  stinted  pine 

Uplifts  its  sombre  form, 
The  vassal  of  the  arctic  cloud 

And  of  the  polar  storm ; 

Or  where  the  lakes,  like  oceans, 

Their  deep,  blue  waters  spread, 
Or  where  sublime  Niagara  smites 

The  admirer's  soul  with  dread; 
I've  seen  the  vast  cathedral's  pile, 

The  pencil's  wondrous  art ; 
Yet  still  those  old,  green  trees  I  bore 

Depictured  on  my  heart. 


64  THE    OLD    ELMS. 


I  sought  my  native  village 

When  years  had  held  their  sway, 
But  many  a  column  of  its  trust 

Lay  wreck'd  in  mouldering  clay; 
The  stately  and  the  white-hair 'd  men 

Whose  wisdom  was  its  stay, 
For  them  I  ask'd,  and  Echo's  voice 

Responded,  "Where  are  they?" 

I  sought  the  thrifty  matron 

Whose  busy  wheel  was  heard 
When  early  beams  of  morning 

Awoke  the  chirping  bird ; 
Strange  faces  from  her  casement  look'd, 

Strange  voices  fill'd  her  cot, 
And  'neath  the  very  vine  she  train' d 

IJer  memory  was  forgot. 

I  left  a  youthful  matron, 

Her  children  round  her  knee : 
Those  babes  had  changed  to  bearded  men, 

And  coldly  look'd  on  me ; 
While  she,  with  all  her  bloom  and  grace, 

Did  in  the  churchyard  lie ; 
Yet  still  those  towering  elms  upbore 

Their  kingly  canopy. 


THE    OLD    ELMS.  65 


Though  we,  who  'neath  their  shadow 

Pursued  our  childish  play, 
Now  find  amid  our  sunny  locks 

The  sprinkled  tint  of  gray ; 
Though  still  the  region  of  our  birth 

Must  many  a  change  betide, 
Long  may  those  sacred  elms  retain 

Their  glorious  strength  and  pride. 


66  TO-MORROW. 


TO-MORROW. 

ONCE  when  the  traveller's  coach  o'er  England's  vales 
Paused  at  its  destined  goal,  an  aged  crone 
Came  from  a  neighbouring  cottage,  with  such  speed 
As  weary  years  might  make,  and  with  red  eye 
Scanning  each  passenger,  in  hurried  tones 
Demanded,  "Has  he  come?" 

"No,  not  to-day; 

To-morrow,"  was  the  answer.     So,  she  turn'd, 
Raising  her  shrivel' d  finger,  with  a  look 
Half-credulous,  half-reproachful,  murmuring  low, 
"  To-morrow"  and  went  homeward. 

A  sad  tale 

Was  hers,  they  said.     She  and  her  husband  shared, 
From  early  days,  a  life  of  honest  toil, 
Content,  though  poor.     One  only  son  they  had, 
Healthful  and  bright,  and  to  their  simple  thought 
Both  wise  and  fair.     The  father  was  a  man 
Austere  and  passionate,  who  loved  his  boy 
With  pride  that  could  not  bear  to  brook  his  faults 


10-MORROW.  67 


Nor  patiently  to  mend  them.     As  he  grew 
Toward  man's  estate,  the  mother's  readier  tact 
Discern' d  the  change  of  character  that  meets 
With  chafing  neck  the  yoke  of  discipline, 
And  humour'd  it ;  while  to  the  sire  he  seem'd 
Still  but  a  child,  and  so  he  treated  him. 
When  eighteen  summers  threw  a  ripening  tinge 
O'er  brow  and  cheek,  the  father,  at  some  fault 
Born  more  of  rashness  than  of  turpitude, 
Struck  him  in  wrath,  and  turn'd  him  from  his  door 
With  bitter  words.     The  youth,  who  shared  too  deep 
The  fiery  temper  of  his  father's  blood, 
Vow'd  to  return  no  more. 

The  mother  wept, 

And  wildly  pray'd  her  husband  to  forgive, 
And  call  him  back.     But  he,  with  aspect  stern, 
Bade  her  be  silent,  adding  that  the  boy 
Was  by  her  folly  and  indulgence  spoil' d 
Beyond  reclaim.     And  so  she  shuddering  took 
The  tear  and  prayer  back  to  her  inmost  soul, 
And  waited  till  the  passion-storm  should  slack, 
And  die  away.     Long  was  that  night  of  wo, 
Yet  mid  its  dreary  watch,  she  thank' d  her  God 
When,  after  hours  of  tossing,  blessed  sleep    « 
Stole  o'er  the  moody  man.     With  quiet  morn 
Relentings  came,  and  that  ill-smother'd  pang 


68  TO-MORROW. 


With  which  an  unruled  spirit  takes  the  lash 

Of  keen  remorse.     Awhile  with  shame  he  strove, 

And  then  he  bade  the  woman  seek  her  son, 

If  so  she  will'd.     Alas  !  it  was  too  late. 

He  was  a  listed  soldier  for  a  land 

Beyond  the  seas,  nor  would  their  little  all 

Suffice  to  buy  him  back. 

'Twere  long  to  tell 

How  pain  and  loneliness  and  sorrow  took 
Their  Shylock-payment  for  that  passion-gust. 
Or  how  the  father,  when  his  hour  had  come, 
Said,  with  a  trembling  lip  and  hollow  voice, 
"Would  that  our  boy  were  here  !"  or  how  the  wife, 
In  tenderest  ministrations  round  his  bed, 
And  in  her  widow'd  mourning,  echoed  still 
His  dying  words,  "  Oh  !  that  our  boy  were  here." 

Years  sped,  and  oft  her  soldier's  letters  came 
Replete  .with  filial  love,  and  penitence, 
And  promise  of  return.     But  then,  her  soul 
Was  wrung  by  cruel  tidings,  that  he  lay 
Wounded  and  sick  in  foreign  hospitals. 
A  line  traced  faintly  by  his  own  dear  hand 
Relieved  the  torture.     He  was  order'd  home, 
Among  the  invalids. 

Joy,  long  unknown 


TO-MORROW.  69 


Rush'd  through  her  desolate  heart.     To  hear  his  voice, 
To  gaze  into  his  eyes,  to  part  the  locks 
On  his  pure  forehead,  to  prepare  his  food, 
And  nurse  his  feebleness,  she  ask'd  no  more. 

Again  his  childhood's  long  forsaken  couch 
Put  forth  its  snowy  pillow,  and  once  more, 
The  well-saved  curtain  of  flower'd  muslin  deck'd 
The  lowly  casement  where  he  erst  did  love 
To  sit  and  read. 

The  cushion'd  chair,  that  cheer'd 
His  father's  lingering  sickness,  should  be  his ; 
And  on  the  little  table  at  his  side 
The  hour-glass  stood,  whose  ever-shifting  sands 
Had  pleased  him  when  a  boy. 

The  appointed  morn 

Drew  slowly  on.     The  cheerful  coals  were  heap'd 
In  the  small  grate,  and  ere  the  coach  arrived 
She  with  her  throbbing  heart  stood  eager  there. 
"Has  Willie  come?" 

Each  traveller,  intent 
On  his  own  destination,  heeded  not 
To  make  reply.     "  Coachman  !  is  Willie  there  ?" 

"  Willie  ?     No  !  no  !"  in  a  hoarse,  hurried  voice, 
Came  the  gruff  answer.     "  Know  yo  not  he's  dead, 


70  TO-MORROW. 


Good  woman  ?     Dead  !     And  buried  on  the  coast, 
Four  days  ago." 

But  a  kind  stranger  mark'd 
How  the  strong  surge  of  speechless  agony- 
Swept  o'er  each  feature,  and  in  pity  said, 
"Perchance  he'll  come  to-morrow." 

Home  she  went, 

Struck  to  the  soul,  and  wept  the  livelong  night, 
Insensible  to  comfort,  and  to  all 
Who  spake  the  usual  words  of  sympathy, 
Answering  nothing. 

But  when  day  return'd, 
And  the  slight  hammer  of  the  cottage-clock 
Announced  the  hour  at  which  her  absent  son 
Had  been  expected,  suddenly  she  rose, 
And  dress'd  herself  and  threw  her  mantle  on, 
And  as  the  coachman  check'd  his  foaming  steeds, 
Stood  eager  by  his  side.     "  Is  Willie  there  ? 
My  Willie?     Say!" 

While  he,  by  pity  school'd, 
Answer 'd,  "  To-morrow." 

And  though  years  have  fled, 
And  still  her  limbs  grow  weaker,  and  the  hairs 
Whiter  and  thinner  on  her  wrinkled  brow, 
Yet  duly,  when  the  shrill  horn  o'er  the  hills 
Preludeth  the  approaching  traveller, 


TO-MORROW.  71 


That  poor,  demented  woman  hurries  forth 
To  speak  her  only  question,  and  receive 
That  one  reply,  To-morrow. 

And  on  that 

Fragment  of  hope  deferr'd,  doth  her  worn  heart 
Feed  and  survive.     Lull'd  by  those  syren  words, 
"  To-morrow"  which  from  childhood's  trustful  dawn 
Have  lured  us  all.     When  Reason  sank 
In  the  wild  wreck  of  Grief,  maternal  Lore 
Caught  at  that  empty  sound,  and  clasp'd  it  close, 
And  grappled  to  it,  like  a  broken  oar, 
To  breast  the  shoreless  ocean  of  despair. 


72  EVE. 


EVE. 

FOR  the  first  time,  a  lovely  scene 

Earth  saw,  and  smiled, — 
A  gentle  form  with  pallid  mien 

Bending  o'er  a  new-born  child: 
The  pang,  the  anguish,  and  the  wo 

That  speech  hath  never  told, 
Fled,  as  the  sun  with  noontide  glow 

Dissolves  the  snow-wreath  cold, 
Leaving  the  bliss  that  none  but  mothers  know; 
While  he,  the  partner  of  her  heaven-taught  joy, 
Knelt  in  adoring  praise  beside  his  beauteous  boy. 

She,  first  of  all  our  mortal  race, 
Learn'd  the  ecstasy  to  trace 
The  expanding  form  of  infant  grace 
From  her  own  life-spring  fed ; 
To  mark,  each  radiant  hour, 
Heaven's  sculpture  still  more  perfect  growing, 
More  full  of  power ; 


EVE.  V 

The  little  foot's  elastic  tread, 
The  rounded  cheek,  like  rose-bud  glowing, 
The  fringed  eye  with  gladness  flowing, 

As  the  pure,  blue  fountains  roll ; 
And  then  those  lisping  sounds  to  hear, 
Unfolding  to  her  thrilling  ear 
The  strange,  mysterious,  never-dying  soul, 

And  with  delight  intense 
To  watch  the  angel-smile  of  sleeping  innocence. 

No  more  she  mourn'd  lost  Eden's  joy, 
Or  wept  her  cherish'd  flowers, 
In  their  primeval  bowers 
By  wrecking  tempests  riven ; 
The  thorn  and  thistle  of  the  exile's  lot 

She  heeded  not, 

So  all-absorbing  was  her  sweet  employ 
To  rear  the  incipient  man,*  the  gift  her  God  had  given. 

And  when  his  boyhood  bold 

A  richer  beauty  caught, 
Her  kindling  glance  of  pleasure  told 

The  incense  of  her  idol-thought : 


*  « I  have  gotten  a  man  from  the  Lord."    GEN.  iv.  1. 
a 


EVE. 

Not  for  the  born  of  clay 

Is  pride's  exulting  thrill, 
Dark  herald  of  the  downward  way, 

And  ominous  of  ill. 
Even  his  cradled  brother's  smile 

The  haughty  first-born  jealously  survey 'd, 
And  envy  mark'd  the  brow  with  hate  and  guile, 
In  God's  own  image  made. 

At  the  still  twilight  hour, 
When  saddest  images  have  power, 
Musing  Eve  her  fears  exprest : — 
"  He  loves  me  not ;  no  more  with  fondness  free 

His  clear  eye  looks  on  me; 
Dark  passions  rankle  there,  and  moody  hate 

Predicts  some  adverse  fate. 

• 

Ah !  is  this  he,  whose  waking  eye, 

Whose  faint,  imploring  cry, 
With  new  and  unimagined  rapture  blest  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  the  throes  his  life  that  bought, 
Were  naught  to  this  wild  agony  of  thought 

That  racks  my  boding  breast." 

So  mourn' d  our  mother,  in  her  secret  heart. 
With  presage  all  too  true ; 


EVE.  75 

And  often  from  the  midnight  dream  would  start, 
Her  forehead  bathed  in  dew; 

But  say,  what  harp  shall  dare, 
Unless  by  hand  immortal  strung. 
What  pencil  touch  the  hue, 

Of  that  intense  despair 
Her  inmost  soul  that  wrung ! 
For  Cain  was  wroth,  and  in  the  pastures  green, 
Where  Abel  led  his  flock,  mid  waters  cool  and  sheen, 
With  fratricidal  hand,  that  blameless  shepherd  slew 

Earth  learn'd  strong  lessons  in  her  morning  prime, 

More  strange  than  Chaos  taught, 

When  o'er  contending  elements  the  darkest  veil  wa,s  wrought ; 
The  poison  of  the  tempter's  glozing  tongue, 
Man's  disobedience  and  expulsion  dire, 
The  terror  of  the  sword  of  fire 

At  Eden's  portal  hung, 
Inferior  creatures  filled  with  savage  hate, 
•No  more  at  peace,  no  more  subordinate ; 
Man's  birth  in  agony,  man's  death  by  crime, 
The  taste  of  life-blood,  brother-spilt ; 

But  that  red  stain  of  guilt 
Sent  through  her  inmost  heart  such  sickening  pain, 

That  in  her  path  o'er  ether's  plain 
She  hid  her  head  and  mourn'd,  amid  the  planet-train. 


70  CONNECTICUT   RIVER. 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

FAIR  river  !  not  unknown  to  classic  song, 
Which  still  in  varying  beauty  roll'st  along, 
When  first  thy  infant  fount  is  faintly  seen, 
A  line  of  silver  mid  a  fringe  of  green, 
Or  where,  near  towering  rocks,  thy  bolder  tide, 
To  win  the  giant-guarded  pass,  doth  glide, 
Or  where,  in  azure  mantle  pure  and  free, 
Thou  givest  thy  cool  hand  to  the  waiting  sea. 

Though  broader  streams  our  sister  realms  may  boast, 
More  ancient  cities,  and  a  bolder  coast, 
Yet  from  the  bound  where  hoarse  St.  Lawrence  roars 
To  where  La  Plata  laves  the  tropic  shores, 
From  where  the  arms  of  slimy  Nilus  shine 
To  the  blue  waters  of  the  rushing  Rhine, 
Or  where  Ilissus  glows  like  diamond  spark, 
Or  sacred  Ganges  whelms  her  votaries  dark, 
No  brighter  skies  the  eye  of  day  may  see, 
Nor  soil  more  verdant,  nor  a  race  more  free. 


CONNECTICUT   RIVER.  77 

See  !  where  amid  their  cultured  vales  they  stand, 
The  generous  offspring  of  a  simple  land ; 
Too  rough  for  flattery,  and  all  fear  above, 
King,  priest,  and  prophet  mid  the  homes  they  love. 
On  equal  laws  their  anchor'd  hopes  are  stay'd, 
By  all  interpreted,  and  all  obey'd; 
Alike  the  despot  and  the  slave  they  hate, 
And  rise,  firm  columns  of  a  happy  state : 
To  them  content  is  bliss — and  labour  health, 

And  knowledge  power,  and  pure  religion  wealth. 

• 

The  farmer,  here,  with  honest  pleasure  sees 
His  orchards  blushing  to  the  fervid  breeze, 
His  bleating  flocks  the  shearer's  care  that  need, 
His  waving  woods  the  wintry  hearth  that  feed, 
His  hardy  steers  that  break  the  yielding  soil, 
His  patient  sons  who  aid  their  father's  toil, 
The  ripening  fields  for  joyous  harvest  drest, 
And  the  white  spire  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 

His  thrifty  mate,  solicitous  to  bear 
An  equal  burden  in  the  yoke  of  care, 
With  vigorous  arm  the  flying  shuttle  heaves, 
Or  from  the  press  the  golden  cheese  receives : 
Her  pastime,  when  the  daily  task  is  o'er, 
With  apron  clean,  to  seek  her  neighbour's  door. 


78  CONNECTICUT    RIVER. 

Partake  the  friendly  feast,  with  social  glow, 
Exchange  the  news,  and  make  the  stocking  grow ; 
Then  hale  and  cheerful  to  hdr  home  repair, 
When  Sol's  slant  ray  renews  her  evening  care, 
Press  the  full  udder  for  her  children's  meal, 
Rock  the  tired  babe  or  wake  the  tuneful  wheel. 

See,  toward  yon  dome  where  village  science  dwells, 
When  the  church-clock  its  warning  summons  swells, 
What  tiny  feet  the  well-known  path  explore, 
And  gayly  gather  from  each  rustic  door. 
The  new-wean' d  child  with  murmuring  tone  proceeds, 
Whom  her  scarce  taller  baby-brother  leads, 
Transferr'd  as  burdens,  that  the  housewife's  care 
May  tend  the  dairy,  or  the  fleece  prepare. 
Light-hearted  group  !  who  carol  wild  and  high, 
The  daisy  cull,  or  chase  the  butterfly, 
Or  by  some  traveller's  wheel  aroused  from  play, 
The  stiff  salute  with  deep  demureness  pay, 
Bare  the  curl'd  brow,  and  stretch  the  sunburnt  hand, 
The  home-taught  homage  of  an  artless  land. 
The  stranger  marks,  amid  their  joyous  line, 
The  little  baskets  whence  they  hope  to  dine, 
And  larger  books,  as  if  their  dexterous  art 
Dealt  most  nutrition  to  the  noblest  part : — 


CONNECTICUT   RIVER.  79 

Long  may  it  be,  ere  luxury  teach  the  shame 

To  starve  the  mind,  and  bloat  the  unwieldy  frame. 

Scorn  not  this  lowly  race,  ye  sons  of  pride, 
Their  joys  disparage,  nor  their  hopes  deride  : 
From  germs  like  these  have  mighty  statesmen  sprung, 
Of  prudent  counsel,  and  persuasive  tongue ; 
Unblenching  souls,  who  ruled  the  willing  throng, 
Their  well-braced  nerves  by  early  labour  strong ; 
Inventive  minds,  a  nation's  wealth  that  wrought ; 
And  white-hair'd  sages,  sold  to  studious  thought ; 
Chiefs,  whose  bold  step  the  field  of  battle  trod ; 
And  holy  men,  who  fed  the  flock  of  God. 

Here,  mid  the  graves  by  time  so  sacred  made, 
The  poor,  lost  Indian  slumbers  in  the  shade ; 
He  whose  canoe  with  arrowy  swiftness  clave, 
In  ancient  days,  yon  pure  cerulean  wave ; 
Son  of  that  Spirit,  whom  in  storms  he  traced, 
Through  darkness  followed,  and  in  death  embraced, 
He  sleeps  an  outlaw,  mid  his  forfeit  land, 
And  grasps  the  arrow  in  his  moulder 'd  hand. 

Here,  too,  our  patriot  sires  with  honour  rest, 
In  Freedom's  cause  who  bared  the  valiant  breast ; 


80  CONNECTICUT   RIVER 

Sprang  from  their  half-drawn  furrow,  as  the  cry 

Of  threaten'd  Liberty  went  thrilling  by, 

Look'd  to  their  God,  and  rear'd,  in  bulwark  round, 

Breasts  free  from  guile,  and  hands  with  toil  embrown' d, 

And  bade  a  monarch's  thousand  banners  yield — 

Firm  at  the  plough,  and  glorious  in  the  field : 

Lo  !  here  they  rest  who  every  danger  braved, 

Unmark'd,  untrophied,  mid  the  soil  they  saved. 

Round  scenes  like  these  doth  warm  remembrance  glide, 

Where  emigration  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide 

On  western  wilds,  which  thronging  hordes  explore, 

Or  ruder  Erie's  serpent-haunted  shore, 

Or  far  Huron,  by  unshorn  forests  crown'd, 

Or  red  Missouri's  unfrequented  bound, 

The  exiled  man,  when  midnight  shades  invade, 

Couch'd  in  his  hut,  or  camping  on  the  glade, 

Starts  from  his  dream,  to  catch,  in  echoes  clear, 

The  boatman's  song  that  charm'd  his  boyish  ear; 

While  the  sad  mother,  mid  her  children's  mirth, 

Paints  with  fond  tears  a  parent's  distant  hearth, 

Or  cheats  her  rustic  babes  with  tender  tales 

Of  thee,  blest  river  !  and  thy  velvet  vales, 

Her  native  cot,  where  luscious  berries  swell, 

The  village  school,  and  Sabbath's  tuneful  bell, 

And  smiles  to  see  the  infant  soul  expand 

With  proud  devotion  for  that  father-land. 


BELL   OF    THE    WRECK. 


BELL  OF  THE  WRECK. 


The  bell  of  the  steamer  Atlantic,  lost  in  Long-Island  Sound,  Nov.  25th,  1846,  being 
supported  by  portions  of  the  wreck  and  the  contiguous  rock,  continued  to  toll,  swept  by 
wind  and  surge,  the  requiem  of  the  dead. 


TOLL,  toll,  toll, 

Thou  bell  by  billows  swung, 
And  night  and  day  thy  warning  words 

Repeat  with  mournful  tongue  ! 
Toll  for  the  queenly  boat, 

"VVreck'd  on  yon  rocky  shore; 
Sea-weed  is  in  her  palace-halls, 

She  rides  the  surge  no  more  ! 


Toll  for  the  master  bold, 

The  high-soul' d  and  the  brave, 
Who  ruled  her  like  a  thing  of  life 

Amid  the  crested  wave  ! 
Toll  for  the  hardy  crew, 

Sons  of  the  storm  and  blast, 
Who  long  the  tyrant  Ocean  dared, 

But  it  vanquish'd  them  at  last :' 


TO  BELL   OF   THE    WRECK. 


Toll  for  the  man  of  God, 

Whose  hallow'd  voice  of  prayer 
Rose  calm  above  the  stifled  groan 

Of  that  intense  despair  ! 
How  precious  were  those  tones 

On  that  sad  verge  of  life, 
Amid  the  fierce  and  freezing  storm, 

And  the  mountain-billows'  strife  ! 

Toll  for  the  lover  lost 

To  the  summon'd  bridal  train  ! 
Bright  glows  a  picture  on  his  breast, 

Beneath  the  unfathom'd  main. 
One  from  her  casement  gazeth 

Long  o'er  the  misty  sea ; 
He  cometh  not,  pale  maiden, 

His  heart  is  cold  to  thee ! 

Toll  for  the  absent  sire, 

Who  to  his  home  drew  near, 
To  bless  a  glad  expecting  group, 

Fond  wife,  and  children  dear  ! 
They  heap  the  blazing  hearth, 

The  festal  board  is  spread, 
But  a  fearful  guest  is  at  the  gate : 

Room  for  the  sheeted  dead ! 


BELL  OF   THE    WRECK.  R? 

Toll  for  the  loved  and  fair, 

The  whelm'd  beneath  the  tide, 
The  broken  harps  around  whose  strings 

The  dull  sea-monsters  glide  ! 
Mother  and  nursling  sweet, 

Reft  from  the  household  throng ; 
There's  bitter  weeping  in  the  nest 

Where  breath' d  their  soul  of  song. 

Toll  for  the  hearts  that  bleed 

'Neath  misery's  furrowing  trace  ! 
Toll  for  the  hapless  orphan  left 

The  last  of  all  his  race  ! 
Yea,  with  thy  heaviest  knell 

From  surge  to  rocky  shore, 
Toll  for  the  living,  not  the  dead, 

Whose  mortal  woes  are  o'er ! 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 

O'er  breeze  and  billow  free. 
And  with  thy  startling  lore  instruct 

Each  rover  of  the  sea ; 
Tell  how  o!er  proudest  joys 

May  swift  destruction  sweep, 
And  bid  him  build  his  hopes  on  high, 

Lone  Teacher  of  the  deep  ! 


WINTER   AND    AGE 


WINTER  AND  AGE. 

GRAY  Winter  loveth  silence.     He  is  old, 
And  liketh  not  the  sporting  of  the  lambs, 
Nor  the  shrill  song  of  birds.     It  irketh  him 
To  hear  the  forest  melodies,  though  still 
He  giveth  license  to  the  ruffian  winds, 
That,  with  black  foreheads  and  distended  cheeks, 
Mutter  hoarse  thunders  on  their  wrecking  path. 

He  lays  his  finger  on  the  lip  of  .streams, 
And  they  are  ice;  and  stays  the  merry  foot 
Of  the  slight  runlet,  as  it  leapeth  down, 
Terrace  by  terrace,  from  the  mountain's  head. 
He  silenceth  the  purling  of  the  brook, 
That  told  its  tale  in  gentle  summer's  ear 
All  the  day  long  reproachless,  and  doth  bid 
Sharp  frosts  chastise  and  chain  it,  till  it  shrink 
Abash'd  away. 

He  sits  with  wrinkled  face, 
Like  some  old  grandsire,  ill  at  ease,  who  shuts 


WINTER  AND   AGE. 


85 


The  noisy  trooping  of  the  children  out, 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  pleasant  fire, 
Doth  settle  on  his  head  the  velvet  cap, 
And  bless  his  stars  for  quiet  once  again. 
Stern  winter  drives  the  truant  fountain  back 
"  To  the  dark  caverns  of  the  imprisoning  earth, 
And  deadeneth  with  his  drifted  snows  the  sound 
Of  wheel  and  foot-tramp. 

Thus  it  is  with  man, 

When  the  chill  winfcer»of  his  life  draws  on. 
The  ea,r  doth  loathe  the  sounds  that  erst  it  loved, 
Or,  like  some  moody  hermit,  bar  the  door, 
Though  sweetest  tones  solicit  it  in  vain. 
The  eye  grows  weary  of  the  tarnish' d  scenes 
And  old  wind-shaken  tapestries  of  time, 
While  all  the  languid  senses  antedate 
The  Sabbath  of  the  tomb. 

The  echoing  round 

Of  giddy  pleasures,  where  his  heart  in  youth 
Disported  eagerly,  the  rushing  tread 
Of  the  great,  gorgeous  world,  are  nought  to  him, 
Who,  as  he  journey eth  to  a  clime  unknown, 
Would  to  the  skirts  of  holy  silence  cling, 
And  let  all  sounds  anft  symphonies  of  earth 
Fall  like  a  faded  vestment  from  the  soul. 


86  BIRDS   OF    PASSAGE. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

NOVEMBER  came  on,  with  an  eye  severe, 
And  his  stormy  language  was  hoarse  to  hear, 
And  the  glittering  garland  of  gold  and  red, 
Which  was  wreath' d  for  a  while  round  the  forest's  head, 
With  sudden  anger  he  rent  away, 
And  all  was  cheerless  and  bare  and  gray. 

Then  the  houseless  grasshopper  told  his  woes, 
And- the  humming-bird  sent  forth  a  wail  for  the  rose, 
And  the  spider,  that  weaver  of  cunning  so  deep, 
Roll'd  himself  up  in  a  ball  to  sleep; 
And  the  cricket  his  merry  horn  laid  by 
On  the  shelf,  with  the  pipe  of  the  dragon-fly. 

Soon  the  birds  were  heard,  at  the  morning  prime, 
Consulting  of  flight  to  a  warmer  clime : 
"  Let  us  go  !  let  us  go  !"  said  the  bright-wing'd  jay ; 
And  his  gay  spouse  sang  from  a  rocking  spray. 


BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE.  87 

"I  am  tired  to  death  of  this  humdrum  tree; 
I'll  go,  if  'tis  only  the  world  to  see  !" 

"Will  you  go  ?"  ask'd  the  robin,  "my  only  love  ?" 
And  a  tender  strain  from  the  leafless  grove 
Responded,  "  Wherever  your  lot  is  cast, 
Mid  summer  skies  or  the  northern  blast, 
I  am  still  at  your  side  all  your  wanderings  to  cheer, 
Though  dear  is  our  nest  in  the  thicket  here." 

"I  am  ready  to  go,"  cried  the  querulous  wren, 
"From  the  wind-swept  homes  of  these  northern  men  ; 
My  throat  is  sore,  and  my  feet  are  blue ; 
I  fear  I  have  caught  the  consumption  too." 
And  the  oriole  told,  with  a  flashing  eye, 
How  his  plumage  was  dimm'd  by  this  frosty  sky. 

Then  up  went  the  thrush  with  a  trumpet  call, 
And  the  martins  came  forth  from  their  cells  on  the  wall, 
And  the  owlets  peep'd  out  from  their  secret  bower, 
And  the  swallows  conversed  on  the  old  church-tower, 

And  the  council  of  blackbirds  was  long  and  loud, 

i 
Chattering  and  flying  from  tree  to  cloud. 

"The  dahlia  is  dead  on  her  throne,"  said  they, 
"And  we  saw  the  butterfly  coid  as  clay; 


BIRDS    OF   PASSAGE. 


Not  a  berry  is  found  on  the  russet  plains, 
Not  a  kernel  of  ripen'd  maize  remains  ; 
Every  worm  is  hid  —  shall  we  longer  stay 
To  be  wasted  with  famine  ?     Away  !  away  !" 

But  what  a  strange  clamour  on  elm  and  oak 
From  a  bevy  of  brown-coated  mocking-birds  broke  ; 
The  theme  of  each  separate  speaker  they  told, 
In  a  shrill  report,  with  such  mimicry  bold, 
That  the  eloquent  orators  started  to  hear 
Their  own  true  echo,  so  wild  and  clear. 

Then  tribe  after  tribe,  with  its  leader  fair, 
Swept  off  through  the  fathomless  depths  of  air. 
Who  marketh  their  course  to  the  tropics  bright  ? 
Who  nerveth  their  wing  for  its  weary  flight  ? 
Who  guideth  that  caravan's  trackless  way, 
By  the  star  at  night  and  the  cloud  by  day  ? 

Some  spread  o'er  the  waters  a  daring  wing. 
In  the  isles  of  the  southern  sea  to  sing, 
Or  where  the  minaret,  towering  high, 
Pierces  the  blue  of  the  Moslem  sky, 
Or  mid  the  harem's  haunts  of  fear, 
Their  lodgings  to  build,  and  their  nurslings  rear. 


BIRDS    OF   PASSAGE.  89 

The  Indian  fig,  with  its  arching  screen, 
Welcomes  them  in  to  its  vistas  green, 
And  the  breathing  buds  of  the  spicy  tree 
Thrill  at  the  burst  of  their  melody, 
And  the  bulbul  starts,  mid  his  carol  clear, 
Such  a  rushing  of  stranger-wings  to  hear. 

Oh  wild  wood-wanderers  !  how  far  away 
From  your  rural  homes  in  our  vales  ye  stray ; 
But  when  they  are  waked  by  the  touch  of  Spring, 
Shall  we  see  you  again  with  your  glancing  wing, 
Your  nests  mid  our  household  trees  to  raise, 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  our  Maker's  praise  ? 


90  PARTING  OF   THE   WIDOW'S  SON. 


PARTING  OF  THE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


YON  slender  boy  his  bark  hath  launch'd 

On  life's  deceitful  tide  ; 
His  balmy  years  of  childhood  o'er, 

He  goes  without  a  guide, 
Amid  the  stir  and  strife  of  men 

His  devious  course  to  run, 
The  tempter  and  the  snare  to  bide — 

God  bless  the  widow's  son. 

He  turneth  from  the  pleasant  door, 

And  from  the  garden  fair, 
Where  with  his  little  spade  he  wrought 

Beneath  a  mother's  care; 
He  bears  his  head  like  manhood  high, 

Yet  tears  their  course  will  run, 
When  on  his  stranger-bed  he  rests — 

God  bless  the  widow's  son. 


PARTING    OF    THE   WIDOW'S   SON.  91 

Say  ye  he  goeth  forth  alone 

To  dare  the  eventful  field  ? 
No,  no  !  a  spell  is  round  him  thrown, 

Like  adamantine  shield, — 
A  mournful  mother's  fervent  prayer ! 

So,  till  his  life  is  done, 
Till  time  and  toil  and  change  are  o'er, 

God  bless  the  widow's  son. 


AARON    ON    MOUNT    HOR. 


AAEON  ON  MOUNT  HOR. 

THE  summer-day  declined  o'er  Edom's  vales, 
As  on,  through  rugged  paths  of  lone  Mount  Hor, 
Three  men  went  travelling  slow. 

One,  whose  white  beard 

O'erswept  his  reverend  breast,  moved  painful  on, 
And  ever,  as  the  ascent  steeper  grew, 
More  wearily  did  lean  on  those  who  lent 
Their  kindly  aid. 

I  see  the  mitred  brow 
Of  the  High  Priest  of  Israel,  and  anon, 
As  the  slant  sun  sends  forth  some  brighter  beam 
Through  the  sparse  boughs  and  cones  of  terebinth, 
His  dazzling  breastplate  like  a  rainbow  gleams. 

He  muses  o'er  the  distant  Past,  and  calls 
The  buried  years.     Each,  like  unwilling  ghost, 
v Comes  up  with  its  dark  scroll  and  glides  away. 
Again  the  moan  of  Egypt  meets  his  ear, 
As  when  her  first-born  died;  the  sounding  surge 


AARON    ON   MOUNT    HOR.  93 

Of  the  divided  sea,  enforced  to  leave 

Its  ancient  channels ;  the  affrighted  cry 

Of  Israel  at  red  Sinai's  awful  base ; 

Their  murmurings  and  their  mockings  and  their  strife ; 

The  sin  at  Meribah ;  the  desert-graves 

Fed  with  a  rebel  race, — all  rise  anew, 

And,  like  the  imagery  of  troubled  dreams, 

Enwrap  the  spirit. 

With  what  earnest  eye 

And  mournful,  from  the  topmost  cliff  he  gazed. 
There,  stretching  round  its  base,  like  sprinkled  snow 
Were  Israel's  tents,  where  lay  in  brief  repose 
The  desert-wearied  tribes. 

Through  distant  haze 

Gleam'd  Edom's  roofs,  with  shadowy  palm-trees  blent ; 
While  farther  still,  like  a  black  Stygian  pool, 
The  lone  Dead  Sea  its  sullen  waters  roll'd. 

He  turn'd,  and  lo !  Mount  Seir  with  frowning  brow 
Confronted  him.     All  solemn  and  severe 
Was  its  uncover'd  forehead.     Did  it  rise 
Like  witness  stern,  to  stir  with  vengeful  hand 
The  sleeping  memories  of  forgotten  things, 
That  probe  the  conscience  ? 

Once  again  he  bent 
To  mark  the  tents  of  Jacob.     Fair  they  seem'd, 


94  AARON   ON  MOUNT   HOR. 

Amid  lign-aloes  and  the  cedars  tall 
That  God  had  planted ; — fairer  than  to  him, 
That  recreant  prophet,  who  was^  yet  to  spy 
The  chosen  people,  resting  on  their  way, 
And  by  fierce  Balak's  side,  from  Peer's  top 
Take  up  his  parable,  changing  the  curse 
Into  a  blessing. 

But  to  Aaron's  eye, 

The  haunts  his  feet  must  ne'er  revisit  more 
Put  on  new  beauty.     For  the  parting  hour 
Unveils  the  love  that  like  a  stranger  hides 
In  the  heart's  depths. 

Was  that  his  own  sweet  home, 
Its  curtains  floating,  as  the  southern  breeze 
Woo'd  its  white  folds  ? 

He  pass'd  his  arm  around 
His  brother's  shoulder,  leaning  heavily, 
And  lower  o'er  his  bosom  droop'd  his  head, 
In  that  long,  farewell  look,  which  by  no  sound 
Reveal'd  its  import  to  the  mortal  ear. 


Anon  his  features  wear  a  brightening  tinge, 
Arid  o'er  his  high  anointed  brow  breaks  forth 
A  gleam  of  joy.     Caught  he  a  glorious  view 
Of  that  eternal  Canaan,  fair  with  light, 


AARON   ON   MOUNT   HOR.  95 

And  water 'd  by  the  river  of  his  God, 
Where  was  his  heritage  ? 

Or  stole  a  strain 

From  Miriam's  timbrel,  o'er  the  flood  of  death 
Urging  him  onward,  through  the  last  faint  steps 
Of  toil-worn  life  ? 

And  now  they  reach  the  spot 
Where  he  had  come  to  die.     Strange  heaviness 
Settled  around  his  spirit.     Then  he  knew 
That  death's  dark  angel  stretch'd  a  sable  wing 
'Tween  him  and  earth.     The  altar,  and  the  ark, 
The  unutter'd  mysteries  seen  within  the  vail, 
Those  deep-set  traces  of  his  inmost  soul, 
Grew  dim  and  vanish' d. 

So,  with  trembling  hand, 
He  hasted  to  unclasp  the  priestly  robe 
And  cast  it  o'er  his  son,  and  on  his  head 
The  mitre  place ;  while,  with  a  feeble  voice, 
He  bless' d,  and  bade  him  keep  his  garments  pure 
From  blood  of  souls.     But  then,  as  Moses  raised 
The  mystic  breastplate,  and  that  dying  eye 
Caught  the  last  radiance  of  those  precious  stones, 
By  whose  oracular  and  fearful  light 
Jehovah  had  so  oft  his  will  reveal' d 
Unto  the  chosen  tribes,  whom  Aaron  loved, 
In  all  their  wanderings — but  whose  promised  land 


96  AARON    ON    MOUNT   HOR. 

He  might  not  look  upon — lie  sadly  laid 

His  head  upon  the  mountain's  turfy  breast, 

And  with  one  prayer,  half  wrapp'd  in  stifled  groans, 

Gave  up  the  ghost. 

Steadfast  beside  the  dead, 
With  folded  arms  and  face  uplift  to  heaven 
The  prophet  Moses  stood,  as  if  by  faith 
Following  the  sainted  soul.     No  sigh  of  grief 
Nor  sign  of  earthly  passion  mark'd  the  man 
Who  $nce  on  Sinai's  top  had  talked  with  God. 

But  the  young  priest  knelt  down,  with  quivering  lip, 

And  press'd  his  forehead  on  the  pulseless  breast, 
And,  mid  the  gifts  of  sacerdotal  power 
And  dignity  intrusted  to  his  hand, 
Remembering  but  the  father  that  he  loved, 
Long  with  his  filial  tears  bedew' d  the  clay. 


ADVERTISEMENT   OF   A   LOST   DAY.  97 


ADVERTISEMENT  OF  A  LOST  DAY, 


LOST!  lost!  lost! 

A  gem  of  countless  price, 
Cut  from  the  living  rock, 

And  graved  in  Paradise; 
Set  round  with  three  times  eight 

Large  diamonds,  clear  and  bright, 
And  each  with  sixty  smaller  ones, 

All  changeful  as  the  light. 

Lost — wnere  the  thoughtless  throng 

In  fashion's  mazes  wind, 
Where  trilleth  folly's  song, 

Leaving  a  sting  behind; 
Yet  to  my  hand  'twas  given 

A  golden  harp  to  buy, 
Such  as  the  white-robed  choir  attune 

To  deathless  minstrelsy. 


98  ADVERTISEMENT    OF    A.    LOST   DAY. 

Lost!  lost!  lost! 

I  feel  all  search  is  vain ; 
That  gem  of  countless  cost 

Can  ne'er  be  mine  again ; 
I  offer  no  reward, 

For  till  these  heart-strings  sever* 
I  know  that  Heaven-intrusted  gift 

Is  reft  away  for  ever. 

But  when  the  sea  and  land 

Like  burning  scroll  have  fieu, 
I'll  see  it  in  His  hand 

Who  judgeth  quick  and  deaa : 
And  when  of  scath  and  loss 

That  man  can  ne'er  repair, 
The  dread  inquiry  meets  my  soul, 

What  shall  it  answer  there  ? 


THE   EARLY   BLUE-BIRD.  99 


THE  EARLY  BLUE-BIRD. 

BLUE-BIRD  !  on  yon  leafless  tree, 
Dost  thou  carol  thus  to  me, 
"  Spring  is  coming !     Spring  is  here  !" 
Say'st  thou  so,  my  birdie  dear  ? 
What  is  that,  in  misty  shroud, 
Stealing  from  the  darken' d  cloud? 
Lo  !  the  snow-flakes'  gathering  mound 
Settles  o'er  the  whiteri'd  ground, 
Yet  thou  singest,  blithe  and  clear, 
"  Spring  is  coming !     Spring  is  here  !' 

Strik'st  thou  not  too  bold  a  strain  ? 
Winds  are  piping  o'er  the  plain ; 
Clouds  are  sweeping  o'er  the  sky 
With  a  black  and  threatening  eye ; 
Urchins,  by  the  frozen  rill, 
Wrap  their  mantles  closer  still ; 
Yon  poor  man,  with  doublet  old, 
Doth  he  shiver  at  the  cold  ? 


100  THE   EARLY  BLUE-BIRD. 

Hath  he  not  a  nose  of  blue  ? 
Tell  me,  birdling,  tell  me  true. 

Spring's  a  maid  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Rosy  wreaths  and  revelry : 
Hast  thou  woo'd  some  winged  love 
To  a  nest  in  verdant  grove  ? 
Sung  to  her  of  greenwood  bower, 
Sunny  skies  that  never  lower  ? 
Lured  her  with  thy  promise  fair 
Of  a  lot  that  knows  no  care  ? 
Prithee,  bird,  in  coat  of  blue, 
Though  a  lover,  tell  her  true. 

Ask  her  if,  when  storms  are  long, 
She  can  sing  a  cheerful  song  ? 
When  the  rude  winds  rock  the  tree, 
If  she'll  closer  cling  to  thee  ? 
Then  the  blasts  that  sweep  the  sky, 
Unappall'd  shall  pass  thee  by ; 
Though  thy  curtain' d  chamber  show 
Siftings  of  untimely  snow, 
Warm  and  glad  thy  heart  shall  be, 
Love  shall  make  it  Spring  for  thee. 


THE   ARK   AND   DOVE.  101 


THE  ARK  AND  DOVE. 

"  TELL  me  a  story — please,"  my  little  girl 
Lisp'd  from  her  cradle.     So  I  bent  me  down 
And  told  her  how  it  rain'd,  and  rain'd,  and  rain'd, 
Till  all  the  flowers  were  cover'd,  and  the  trees 
Hid  their  tall  heads,  and  where  the  houses  stood, 
And  people  dwelt,  a  fearful  deluge  roll'd ; 
Because  the  world  was  wicked,  and  refused 
To  heed  the  words  of  God.     But  one  good  man, 
"Who  long  had  warri'd  the  wicked  to  repent, 
Obey,  and  live,  taught  by  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
Had  built  an  ark ;  and  thither,  with  his  wife 
And  children,  turn'd  for  safety.     Two  and  two 
Of  beasts  and  birds  and  creeping  things  he  took, 
With  food  for  all ;  and  when  the  tempest  roar'd, 
And  the  great  fountains  of  the  sky  pour'd  out 
A  ceaseless  flood,  till  all  besides  were  drown'd, 
They  in  their  quiet  vessel  dwelt  secure. 
And  so  the  mighty  waters  bare  them  up, 
And  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  they  sail'd 


103  THE   ARK   AND   DOVE. 

For  many  days.     But  then  a  gentle  dove 
'Scaped  from  the  casement  of  the  ark,  and  spread 
Her  lonely  pinion  o'er  that  boundless  wave. 
All,  all  was  desolation.     Chirping  nest, 
Nor  face  of  man,  nor  living  thing  she  saw, 
For  all  the  people  of  the  earth  were  drown'd, 
Because  of  disobedience.     Naught  she  spied 
Save  wide,  dark  waters,  and  a  frowning  sky, 
Nor  found  her  weary  foot  a  place  of  rest. 
So,  with  a  leaf  of  olive  in  her  mouth, 
Sole  fruit  of  her  drear  voyage,  which,  perchance, 
Upon  some  wrecking  billow  floated  by, 
With  drooping  wing  the  peaceful  ark  she  sought. 
The  righteous  man  that  wandering  dove  received, 
And  to  her  mate  restored,  who,  with  sad  moans, 
Had  wonder'd  at  her  absence. 

Then  I  look'd 

Upon  the  child,  to  see  if  her  young  thought 
Wearied  with  following  mine.     But  her  blue  eye 
Was  a  glad  listener,  and  the  eager  breath 
Of  pleased  attention  curl'd  her  parted  lip. 
And  so  I  told  her  how  the  waters  dried, 
And  the  green  branches  waved,  and  the  sweet  buds 
Came  up  in  loveliness,  and  that  meek  dove 
Went  forth  to  build  her  nest,  while  .thousand  birds 
Awoke  their  songs  of  praise,  and  the  tired  ark 


THE   ARK   AND   DOVE.  103 

Upon  the  breezy  breast  of  Ararat 
Reposed,  and  Noah  with  glad  spirit  rear'd 
An  altar  to  his  God. 

Since,  many  a  time, 

When  to  her  rest,  ere  evening's  earliest  star, 
That  little  one  is  laid,  with  earnest  tone, 
And  pure  cheek  prest  to  mine,  she  fondly  asks 
"  The  Ark  and  Dove." 

Mothers  can  tell  how  oft, 
In  the  heart's  eloquence,  the  prayer  goes  up 
From  a  seal'd  lip  :  and  tenderly  hath  blent 
With  the  warm  teaching  of  the  sacred  tale 
A  voiceless  wish,  that  when  that  timid  soul, 
New  in  the  rosy  mesh  of  infancy 
Fast  bound,  shall  dare  the  billows  of  the  world, 
Like  that  exploring  dove,  and  find  no  rest, 
A  pierced,  a  pitying,  a  redeeming  hand 
May  gently  guide  it  to  the  ark  of  peace. 


104  THE   LOBELIA   CARDINALIS. 


THE  LOBELIA  CARDINALIS. 

"CuLL  me  a  flower,"  the  Indian  maid 

Unto  her  lover  sigh'd, — 
"  Such  as  thy  noble  spirit  deems 

Fit  for  thy  chosen  bride. 

"And  I  will  wear  it  on  my  brow 
When  from  this  home  I  part, 
And  enter  to  thy  forest  bower, 
Thy  true  love  in  my  heart." 

Then  he,  who  with  Acteon's  stride 

Had  erst  that  region  trod, 
Now  with  bow'd  head  went  searching  o'er 

The  flower-enamell'd  sod. 

Unconscious  of  the  unroused  deer, 
Or  the  eagle's  sunward  throne, 

That  haughty  chieftain  meekly  roam'd, 
His  thoughts  on  love  alone. 


THE  LOBELIA   CARDINALIS.  105 

He  cut  the  rich  wild  rose,  that  still 

A  lingering  radiance  cast ; 
Though  soon  its  falling  petals  told 

Its  day  of  pride  was  past. 

He  pluck' d  the  iris,  deeply  blue, 

The  amaryllis  bright, 
And  hid  their  treasures  through  the  day, 

But  cast  them  forth  at  night. 

He  bound  the  water-lily  white 

Amid  her  lustrous  hair, 
Yet  found  her  black  and  flashing  eye 

Required  a  gem  more  rare. 

At  length,  beside  its  mantling  pool 

Majestic  and  serene, 
He  saw  the  proud  lobelia  tower 

In  beauty  like  a  queen. 

That  eve,  the  maiden's  ebon  locks 

Re  veal' d  its  glowing  power, 
Amid  the  simple  nuptial  rites, 

That  graced  the  chieftain's  bower. 


106  THE   LOBELIA  CARDINALIS. 

But  she  who  by  that  stately  flower 
Her  lover's  preference  knew, 

Was  doom'd,  alas  !  in  youthful  hour 
To  share  its  frailty  too. 

For  ere  again  its  glorious  bloom 

Rejoiced  in  Summer's. eye, 
She  droop'd  amid  her  forest  home — 

Her  fount  of  life  was  dry. 

Then,  as  the  ebbing  pulse  declined, 
Forth  from  her  sacred  nook, 

With  swimming  eye  and  trembling  hand, 
Her  bridal  wreath  she  took, 

And  bound  its  wither'd  floral  bells 

Around  her  temples  pale, 
And  faintly  to  her  maidens  spake, — 

For  breath  began  to  fail : — 

"  Should  the  last  death-pangs  shake  me  sore, 

(For  on  they  come  with  power,) 
Press  closer  in  my  ice-cold  hand 
My  husband's  token-flower ; 


THE    LOBELIA   CARDINALIS.  107 

"And  rear  the  turf-mound  broad  and  high 

To  span  my  lonely  grave, 
That  naught  may  sever  from  my  locks 
The  gift  of  love  he  gave ; 

"  So,  when  the  dance  of  souls  goes  forth 

Athwart  the  starry  plain, 
He'll  know  me  by  his  chosen  flower, 
And  make  me  his  again." 


108  FAREWELL   TO    THE   FLOWERS. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 


Go  to  your  peaceful  rest, 

Friends  of  a  brighter  hour, 
Jewels  on  youthful  beauty's  breast, 

Lights  of  the  hall  and  bower. 
Well  have  ye  borne  your  part, 

Fair  children  of  the  sky, 
We'll  keep  your  memory  in  our  heart 

When  low  in  dust  you  lie. 

Your  gladness  in  our  joy, 

Your  smile  beside  our  way, 
Your  gentle  service  round  the  bed 

Of  sickness  and  decay, 
Your  rainbow  on  the  cloud, 

Your  sympathy  in  pain — 
We'll  keep  the  memory  of  your  deeds 

Until  we  meet  again. 


FAREWELL    TO    THE   FLOWERS.  ]09 

Rest  from  the  blush  of  love, 

Rest  from  the  blight  of  care, 
From  the  sweet  nursing  of  your  buds, 

And  from  the  nipping  air ; 
Rest  from  the  fever-thirst 

Of  summer's  noontide  heat, 
From  coiling  worm,  and  rifling  hand 

That  vex'd  your  lone  retreat. 

If  e'er  ye  thrill' d  with  pride 

When  the  admirer  knelt, 
Or  on  the  lowly  look'd  with  scorn 

Which  man  for  man  hath  felt ; 
If  through  your  bosoms  pure 

Hath  aught  like  evil  flow'd, 
Since  folly  may  with  angels  dwell, 

Rest  from  that  painful  load. 

But  not  with  grief  or  fear 

Bow  down  the  drooping  head ; 
See,  in  the  chambers  of  your  birth 

Your  dying  couch  is  spread. 
Go,  strong  in  faith,  ye  flowers, 

Strong  in  your  guileless  trust 
With  Spring's  awakening  trump  to  rise 

Above  imprisoning  dust. 


110  STORM. SAILS. 


STORM-SAILS. 

OUT  with  thy  storm-sails,  for  the  blast  is  loud, 
And  seas  and  skies  commingle. 

Pleasant  smiles, 

Fond  cheering  hopes,  delightful  sympathies, 
Story  and  song,  the  needle's  varied  skill. 
The  shaded  lamp,  the  glowing  grate  at  eve, 
The  page  made  vocal  by  a  taste  refined, 
Imparted  memories,  plans  for  others'  good, 
These  are  a  woman's  storm-sails.     Fain  we'd  keep 
Each  one  in  readiness,  whene'er  the  cloud 
Maketh  our  home  our  fortress,  and  debars 
Egress  abroad. 

So,  choose  ye  which  to  spread, 
My  fair  young  lady.     For  the  foot  of  youth 
Is  nimblest  mid  the  shrouds  of  social  life, 
And  readiest  should  its  fairy  hand  unfurl 
The  household  banner  of  true  happiness. 
What  has  thy  brow  to  do  with  frowns  ?  thy  heart 
With  selfish  lore  ?  as  yet,  so  little  school' d 


STORM-SAILS.  Ill 


In  the  world's  venal  traffic.     Make  thine  eye 
A  cheering  light-house  to  the  voyager 
Wearied  and  worn.     Shed  blessed  hope  on  all, 
Parent,  fraternal  group,  or  transient  guest ; 
Nor  let  the  toiling  servant  be  forgot, 
Who  in  the  casket  of  remembrance  stores 
Each  word  of  praise. 

Mother,  when  tempests  rage, 
Draw  thy  young  children  nearer.     Let  them  share 
The  intercourse  that,  while  it  soothes,  instructs, 
And  elevates  the  soul.     Implant  some  germ 
Of  truth,  or  tenderness,  or  holy  faith, 
And  trust  the  rain  of  heaven  to  water  it. 
So  shall  those  sweet,  unfolding  blossoms  blend 
In  future  years  thine  image  with  the  storm, 
Like  the  pure  rainbow,  with  its  glorious  scroll 
Teaching  of  God. 

Scholar,  and  child  of  rhyme, 
This  is  thy  holiday.     No  vexing  fear 
Of  interruption,  and  no  idler's  foot 
Shall  mar  thy  revery. 

And  while  the  flame 

Of  blissful  impulse  nerves  thy  flying  pen, 
Write  on  thy  storm-sails  deathless  thoughts  to  guide 
Thy  wind-swept  brother  to  the  port  of  peace. 


112  THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 


THE  SCOTTISH  WEAVER. 

As  hasting  night  o'er  Scotia's  plains 

Its  murky  mantle  flung, 
And  on  its  skirts  with  ruffian  wrath 

A  threatening  tempest  hung, 

Beside  a  farm-house  door,  a  voice 

Rose  o'er  the  howling  blast, 
"Ah  !  give  us  shelter  from  the  storm, 
The  darkness  gathers  fast. 

"We  are  not  vagrants,  God  forbid ! 

A  dark  and  evil  day, 
That  made  so  many  looms  stand  still, 
Hath  taken  our  bread  away. 

"And  now,  to  Inverary's  vales, 

In  search  of  work  we  go, 
And  thrice  the  setting  sun  hath  seen 
Our  way-worn  course,  and  slow. 


THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  113 

"  My  wife  a  nursing  infant  bears, 
Three  younglings  at  her  side, 
Weary  and  cold," — but  churlish  tones 
The  earnest  suit  denied. 

"  The  humblest  shed  is  all  we  ask, 

Your  food  we  will  not  crave, 
And  blessings  on  your  head  shall  rest 
E'en  till  we  find  a  grave. 

"Ah  !  for  our  dear  Redeemer's  sake, 

Let  us  till  morning  stay," 
The  harsh  key  grated  in  its  ward, — 
The  suppliant  turn'd  away. 

He  held  his  hand  before  his  face 

To  bar  the  blinding  sleet, 
And  sorrow' d  for  those  hearts  that  soon 

Such  dread  repulse  must  meet. 

"0  husband,  you  have  linger'd  long; 

'Tis  lonesome  on  the  wold; 
Up,  bairnies,  to  yon  bonny  house, 
And  shield  ye  from  the  cold." 


114  THE    SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

The  wretched  man  bent  shuddering  down, 
Scarce  kenn'd  he  what  to  say, 

He  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart 
To  take  her  hope  away. 

Yet  o'er  the  moor,  for  many  a  league, 

All  desolate  and  drear, 
He  knew  no  other  dwelling  rose, 

The  traveller's  sight  to  cheer. 

"  Jeanie,  my  poor  and  patient  wife, 
God  give  thee  strength  to  bear ; 
'Neath  yonder  roof  we  may  not  bide, 
There  is  no  mercy  there." 

The  weary  woman  groan'd  aloud: 

"Not  for  myself  I  cry, 
But  for  the  babe  that  feebly  pines, 

Methinks  its  death  is  nigh." 

The  little  children  sobb'd  and  wept, 

And,  clinging  round  her,  said, 
"  0  mother  !  mother  !  'tis  so  long 
Since  you  have  given  us  bread." 


THE    SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 


115 


The  pitying  father  hush'd  their  grief, 

And  drew  them  to  his  side, 
Till  sleep,  the  angel,  on  their  cheeks 

The  trickling  sorrow  dried; 

Then  spread  his  mantle  o'er  their  breasts, 
Scant  though  it  was  and  poor, 

And  there  mid  driving  snows  they  cower 'd, 
Upon  the  dreary  moor. 

Wild  throbb'd  his  aching  head,  and  wide 

His  starting  eyeballs  strain, 
While  through  the  darkness,  lurid  fires 

Seem'd  flashing  from  his  brain: 

Strange  phantom-forms  went  gibbering  by, 

And  woke  to  fearful  strife 
The  thoughts  that  nerve  the  reckless  hand 

Against  the  traveller's  life. 


A  new  and  dauntless  strength  he  felt, 

Like  giant  in  his  prime, 
Such  strength  as  drives  the  madden'd  wretch 

To  judgment  ere  his  time. 


116  THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

But  from  the  fountain  of  his  soul 

Uprose  a  contrite  prayer, 
That  Heaven  would  crush  the  seeds  of  crime, 

And  break  the  tempter's  snare. 

Kind  tones  the  awful  revery  broke, 

A  human  form  drew  near, 
An  humble  serving-man  who  mark'd 

Their  misery  severe ; 

One  who  the  stern  denial  heard 
That  check' d  the  plaint  of  need, 

And  ventured  to  an  outhouse  rude 
The  hapless  group  to  lead. 

Oh  poor  man,  who  thyself  hast  quaked 
'Neath  hunger-pang,  and  cold, 

Or  felt  the  lashing  of  the  winds 
Through  garments  thin  and  old ; 

Far  better  canst  thou  feel  for  those 

Who  bide  misfortune's  blast, 
Than  Plenty's  proud  and  pamper'd  sons 

Who  share  the  rich  repast, 


THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  117 

Who,  lapp'd  in  luxury,  rejoice 

By  fireside  bright  and  warm, 
Or  from  their  cur  tain' d  pillow  list 

The  howling  of  the  storm. 

Rest  to  those  wearied  ones,  how  sweet ! 

E'en  on  that  pauper-bed, 
The  tatter'd  blanket  o'er  them  cast, 

The  straw  beneath  them  spread. 

But,  at  gray  dawn,  a  piercing  shriek ! 

Hark  to  that  wild  despair ! 
"My  babe  !  my  babe  !  she  breathes  no  more  !" 
Oh  Spoiler  !  art  thou  there  ? 

That  ghastly  face  the  children  mark'd 

As  up  from  sleep  they  sprang, 
The  thin  blue  fingers  clench'd  so  close 

In  the  last  hunger-pang. 

And  pitiful  it  was  to  see 

How  meagre  want  and  care 
Had  set  the  wasting  seal  of  years 

On  brow  so  small  and  fair. 


118  THE   SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

Loud  rose  the  wail  of  childhood's  wo : 

"Will  she  not  wake  again, 
Our  play-mate  sister  ?     Never  more  ?" 

Keen  was  that  transient  pain. 

But  whosoe'er  hath  chanced  to  hear 

A  mother's  cry  of  dread, 
Who,  waking,  on  her  bosom  finds 

Her  nursling  cold  and  dead, — 

Its  nerveless  lip  empower'd  no  more 

The  fount  of  life  to  press, 
And  gleeful  smile  and  speaking  eye 

Mute  to  the  fond  caress, — 

I  say,  whoe'er  that  sound  hath  heard 

Invade  his  lone  retreat, 
Will  keep  the  echo  in  his  soul 

While  memory  holds  her  seat. 

The  father  started  to  her  side, 

He  spoke  no  word  of  wo ; 
Words  ! — would  they  dare  in  such  an  hour 

Their  poverty  to  show  ? 


THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  119 

E'en  manly  nature  reel'd  to  meet 

Such  sudden  shock  of  grief, — 
And  drowning  thought  to  trifles  clung, 

In  search  of  vain  relief. 

The  swallows,  startled  from  their  nests 

By  pain's  discordant  sound, 
Among  the  rafters  bare  and  brown 

Went  circling  round  and  round; 

And  gazing  on  their  aimless  flight, 

He  strove,  with  futile  care, 
To  parry  for  a  little  space 

The  anguish  of  despair. 

But  now,  e'en  hardest  human  hearts 

With  sympathy  were  fraught, 
For  late  remorse  the  kindness  woke 

That  pity  should  have  taught. 

There  lay  the  babe  so  still  and  cold, 

Crush'd  'neath  affliction's  weight, 
For  whom,  perchance,  their  earlier  care 

Had  won  a  longer  date ; 


120  THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

But  in  the  churchyard's  grassy  bound 
A  narrow  spot  they  gave, 

With  tardy  charity,  that  yields— 
Instead  of  bread — a  grave. 

Sad  tears  of  agonizing  grief 
Bedew' d  the  darling's  clay, 

And  then  that  stricken-hearted  group 
Pursued  their  mournful  way. 

O'er  Scotia's  glens  and  mountains  rude 
A  toilsome  path  they  wound. 

Or  'neath  some  cotter's  lowly  roof 
A  nightly  shelter  found, 

Until,  mid  Inverary's  vales, 
Once  more  a  home  they  knew, 

And  from  the  father's  earnest  hand 
The  unresting  shuttle  flew. 

And  though  but  scant  the  dole  he  earn'd, 
Yet  prudence  found  a  way 

To  make  it  satisfy  the  needs 
Of  each  returning  day. 


THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  121 

So,  to  her  parents'  heavy  lot 

Some  filial  aid  to  lend, 
The  eldest,  Bessie,  left  her  home, 

A  shepherd's  flock  to  tend. 

Unceasing,  for  her  helpless  ones, 

The  industrious  mother  strove, 
And  season' d  still  the  homeliest  meal 

With  sweet  maternal  love. 

Oft,  when  the  quiet  gloaming  fell 

O'er  heathery  field  and  hill, 
And  'tween  the  daylight  and  the  dark 

Her  busier  toils  were  still, 

She  told  them  wild  and  stirring  tales 

Of  Scotia's  old  renown, 
And  of  the  Bruce  who  bravely  won, 

In  evil  times,  the  crown ; 

Or  sang,  to  rouse  their  patriot  zeal, 

Some  high,  heroic  stave ; 
Or  whisper'd,  through  her  swelling  tears, 

Of  their  lost  sister's  grave ; 


122  THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

Or  bade  them  duly,  night  and  morn, 
Whene'er  they  knelt  in  prayer. 

To*  supplicate  for  Bessie  dear 
Their  God's  protecting  care. 

Yet  joyous  was  the  hour  when  they, 

With  shout  and  gambol  fleet, 
Went  bounding  from  the  cottage  door 

The  approaching  sire  to  greet, 

Who  twice  a  month,  from  distant  scenes 

Of  weary  toil  and  care, 
Walk'd  three  times  three  long  Scottish  miles 

To  spend  his  Sabbath  there. 

And  when,  like  lone  and  glimmering  star, 

Across  the  heath  he  spied 
The  rush-light  in  the  window  placed 

His  homeward  steps  to  guide, 

Methought  a  spirit's  wing  was  his, 

From  all  obstruction  free, 
Till  by  his  Jeanie's  side  he  sate, 

The  wee  things  on  his  knee. 


Yet  joyous  wa:-  trie  hour,  when  ihe- 

Tfath'sh.c.14  and  gambol  fleet. 
TV^nt  Louiidm^  irou  t^he  cottae  door. 


THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  125 

There,  while  the  humble  fire  of  peat 

A  flickering  radiance  threw, 
The  oatmeal  parritch  had  a  zest 

The  unloving  never  knew. 

And  from  the  poor  man's  thrilling  heart 

Such  grateful  praise  arose, 
As  they  have  never  learn' d  to  breathe 

Who  never  shared  his  woes. 

Once,  when  the  hallo w'd  day  of  rest 

Had  pass'd  serenely  by, 
And  evening  with  its  sober  vail 

Encompass' d  earth  and  sky, 

Their  cottage  worship  duly  paid, 

"While  from  the  pallet  near, 
The  little  sleepers'  breathing  fell 

Like  music  on  their  ear, 

The  faithful  pair  with  kind  discourse 

Beguiled  the  gathering  shade, 
As  fitful  o'er  the  tlarken'd  wrall 

The  blinking  ingle  play'd. 


124  THE   SCOTTISH  WEAVER. 

Then  Jeanie  many  a  soothing  word 

To  Willie's  heart  address'd, 
Her  head  upon  his  shoulder  laid, 

His  arm  around  her  press'd. 

Much  of  their  bairnies'  weal  she  spake, 

And  with  confiding  air 
Incited  for  their  tender  years 

A  father's  watchful  care, 

With  tearful  eye  and  trembling  tone, 

As  one  about  to  trust 
Fond  treasures  to  another's  hand, 

And  slumber  in  the  dust. 

Her  heavenly  hopes,  she  said,  were  bright, 

But  mortal  life  was  frail, 
And  something,  whispering,  warn'd  her  soul 

That  soon  her  strength  might  fail. 

"  Oh,  Willie  dearest !  ne'er  before 

I've  stay'd  thy  lingering  tread, 

For  well  I  know  'tis  hard  to  take 

The  time  that  earns  our  bread. 


THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  125 

"  But  now  one  single  day  I  ask, 

For  then,  the  weight  that  bow'd 
My  spirit  with  its  presage  dire, 
May  prove  an  April  cloud." 

He  stay'd,  to  mark  the  fearful  pang 

That  hath  not  yet  been  told, 
To  see  the  livid  hues  of  death 

The  rigid  brow  unfold. 

He  stay'd,  to  find  all  help  was  vain, 

Ere  the  next  evening-tide, 

i 
And  then  to  lay  her  in  the  grave, 

Her  new-born  babe  beside. 

Her  new-born  babe  !     With  her  it  died, 

And  in  the  white  shroud's  fold, 
Fast  by  her  marble  breast  'twas  seen, 

A  blossom  crush'd  and  cold. 

Oh  wounded  and  forsaken  man  ! 

Whom  mocking  Hope  doth  flee, 
The  lingering  luxury  of  grief 

Is  not  for  such  as  thee. 

L9 


126  THE    SCOTTISH  WEAVER. 

Stern  Toil  doth  summon  thee  away, 
And  thou  the  call  must  hear, 

As  the  lone  Arab  strikes  his  tent 
To  roam  the  desert  drear. 

He  closed  the  pleasant  room  where  late 
His  cheerful  hearth  had  burn'd, 

And  to  the  waiting  landlord's  hand 
The  household  key  return' d. 

And  to  a  pitying  neighbour's  door 
His  youngest  nursling  led, 

Too  weak  to  try  the  weary  road 
It  was  his  lot  to  tread, — 

With  earnest  words  bespoke  her  care, 
Which  he  would  well  repay, 

Then  bless'd  the  poor,  unconscious  boy, 
And  sadly  turn'd  away. 

With  wondering  eyes,  the  stranger-child 
The  unwonted  scene  survey'd, 

And  to  the  darkest  corner  shrank, 
Be  wilder 'd  and  afraid. 


THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  127 

From  thence,  escaping  to  his  home 

With  bosom  swelling  high, 
Uplifted,  as  he  fled  away, 

A  loud  and  bitter  cry ; 

And  wildly  call'd  his  mother's  name, 

And  press' d  the  unyielding  door, 
And  breathless  listen'd  for  the  voice 

That  he  must  hear  no  more. 

And,  then,  the  holy  hymn  she  taught 

He  lisp'd  with  simple  wile, 
As  if  that  talisman  were  sure 

To  win  her  favouring  smile. 

But  when  all  efforts  fruitless  proved, 

Exhausted  with  his  moan, 
The  orphan  sobb'd  himself  to  sleep 

Upon  the  threshold-stone. 

Even  passing  travellers  paused  to  mark 

A  boy,  so  young  and  fair, 
Thus  slumbering  on  a  stony  bed 

Amid  the  nipping  air, — 


128  THE    SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 

A  boy,  whose  flaxen  curls,  the  care 

Of  matron  love  disclose, 
Though  sorrow's  pearl-drops  sprinkled  lay 

Upon  his  cheeks  of  rose. 

But  onward,  toward  his  lot  of  toil 
With  spirit  bow'd  and  bent, 

Wee  Willie  walking  by  his  side, 
The  widow' d  father  went. 

Silent  they  journey M,  hand  in  hand, 
While  from  its  cloud-wrapp'd  head 

A  shower  of  chill  and  drizzling  mist 
The  bleak  Benachie  shed. 

Then,  from  the  beaten  track  they  turn'd 

A  broken  path  to  wind, 
The  lonely  spot  where  Bessie  dwelt, 

In  a  far  glen  to  find. 

They  wander'd  long  o'er  strath  and  brae, 
While  blasts  autumnal  sweep, 

Before  their  own  poor  girl  they  spied 
Tending  her  snowy  sheep. 


THE    SCOTTISH    WEAVER.  129 

Up  toward  the  mountain  side  she  gazed, 

Intent,  yet  sad  of  cheer, 
Expecting  still,  from  hour  to  hour, 

To  greet  her  mother  dear. 

Alas !  this  was  the  appointed  day 

On  which  that  tender  friend 
Had  promised  with  her  loving  child 

A  little  time  to  spend. 

Warm  stockings,  that  her  hand  would  knit 

From  fleecy  wool,  to  bring ; 
Perchance,  a  broader  plaid,  to  shield 

From  coming  winter's  sting. 

As  bounds  the  glad  and  nimble  deer, 

She  flew,  their  steps  to  meet ; 
"  Father  !  and  Willie  !  welcome  here ! 
But  where's  my  mother  sweet  ?" 

"  Speak  to  her,  Willie  !     Kiss  her  cheek ! 

That  grows  so  pale  and  white ; 
Fain  would  I  turn  away  awhile, 
I  cannot  bear  the  sight. 


130  THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER. 

"  0  sob  not  so,  my  precious  son ! 
Speak  kijidly  words,  and  say- 
Why  your  lost  mother  does  not  come, 
And  how  she  sleeps  in  clay." 

So,  clasp'd  within  each  other's  arms, 

Upon  the  heather  dry, 
Beside  a  clear  and  rippling  brook 

That  crept  unheeded  by, 

They  told  their  tale  of  wo,  and  found 

In  sympathy  relief; 
But  he,  the  deeper  mourner,  sank, 

In  solitary  grief. 

And  nought  escaped  his  utterance  there, 
While  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

Save  her  loved  name,  his  poor  lost  wife, 
And  broken  cries  to  God. 

Nor  long  the  kindred  tear  to  pour 
That  smitten  group  might  stay, 

For  meagre  Want  with  tyrant  frown 
Were  beckoning  them  away. 


THE    SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  131 

"Oh,  put  your  trust  in  God,  my  child," 

The  parting  father  said, 
Then  kiss'd  his  daughter's  trembling  lips, 
And  on  his  journey  sped. 

And  sometimes,  when  her  task  bore  hard, 

It  seem'd  a  mother's  sigh, 
"Oh,  put  your  trust  in  God,  my  child," 
Came  breathing  from  the  sky. 

Oh  ye,  who  see  the  suffering  poor 

With  countless  ills  opprest, 
Yet  on  in  lordly  chariots  roll, 

Nor  heed  their  sad  request ; — 

"Who  mark  the  unrequited  toil 

That  with  its  mountain  weight 
Doth  crush  them  hopeless  to  the  dust, 

Yet  leave  them  to  their  fate ; 

Think  of  the  hour,  when  forth,  like  theirs, 

Your  uncloth'd  soul  must  fleet, 
Its  last  and  dread  account  to  bide 

Before  the  Judge's  seat. 


132  THE    SCOTTISH    WEAVER. 


And  if  to  feed  the  hungering  poor, 
And  be  the  orphan's  stay, 

Shall  be  remember'd  mid  the  ire 
Of  that  terrific  day, 


Haste !  ope  the  hand  to  mercy's  deed, 
The  heart  to  sorrow's  prayer, 

And  bid  your  lowly  brother  plead 
For  your  forgiveness  there. 


NOTE. 

"  Strange  to  say,  on  first  becoming  aware  of  the  bereavements  of  that  terrible  night, 
I  sate  for  some  minutes  gazing  upward  at  the  fluttering  and  wheeling  movements  of  a 
party  of  swallows,  our  fellow-lodgers,  that  had  been  disturbed  by  our  unearthly  outcry."— 
Recollections  of  a  Hand-loom  Weaver. 

This  poem  is  almost  a  literal  version  of  circumstances  related  in  a  book,  with  the  above 
title,  published  in  England  recently,  and  written  by  William  Thorn,  a  Scotch  weaver  and 
poet  "Its  object,"  says  the  author,  "is  to  impart  to  one  portion  of  the  community 
glimpses  of  what  is  going  on  in  another." 

In  our  own  happy  land,  the  labouring  poor  have  no  idea  of  the  distress  which  he  thus 
simply  yet  forcibly  depicts.  It  occurred  soon  after  six  thousand  looms  were  stopped  in 
the  region  of  Dundee,  and  just  before  William  Thorn,  with  his  wife  and  four  little  ones, 
left  their  home  at  Newlyte,  in  search  of  the  means  of  subsistence  at  Inverary,  as  related 
in  the  preceding  stanzas. 

"It  had  been  a  stiff  winter  and  an  unkindly  spring;  but  I  will  not  expatiate  on  six 
human  lives  maintained  on  five  shillings  weekly,  on  babies  prematurely  thoughtful,  on 
comely  faces  withering,  on  desponding  youth,  and  too  quickly  declining  age.  I  will  de 
scribe  one  morning  of  modified  starvation  at  Newlyte,  and  then  pass  on. 

"  Imagine  a  cold,  dreary  forenoon.  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  but  our  little  dwelling  shows 
none  of  the  signs  of  that  time  of  day.  The  four  children  are  still  asleep.  There  is  a  bed 
cover  hung  before  the  window,  to  keep  all  within  as  much  like  night  as  possible.  The 


THE   SCOTTISH   WEAVER.  133 


mother  sits  beside  the  bed  of  her  children,  to  lull  them  back  to  sleep,  when  either  shall 
ehow  any  inclination  to  wake.  For  this  there  is  a  cause.  Our  weekly  five  shillings  have 
not  come  as  was  expected,  and  the  only  food  in  the  house  consists  of  a  handful  of  oatmeal 
saved  from  the  supper  of  last  night.  Our  fuel  is  also  exhausted.  My  wife  and  I  were 
conversing  in  sunken  whispers  about  making  an  attempt  to  cook  the  handful  of  meal, 
when  the  youngest  child  awoke,  beyond  the  mother's  power  to  hush  it  again  to  sleep.  It 
finally  broke  out  into  a  steady  scream,  which,  of  course,  rendered  it  impossible  to  keep  the 
rest  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness.  Face  after  face  sprang  up,  each  little  one  exclaiming, 
'Oh  mother!  mother!  give  me  a  piece.'  How  weak  a  word  is  sorrow,  to  apply  to  the 
feelings  of  myself  and  my  wife  on  that  dreary  day !" 


134  NIAGARA. 


NIAGAKA. 

FLOW  on  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty.     Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathom'd  and  resistless.     God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.     And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally — bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence — and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 

Earth  fears  to  lift 

The  insect-trump  that  tells  her  trifling  joys 
Or  fleeting  triumphs,  mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn.     Proud  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood,  and  all  his  waves 
Retire  abash'd.     For  he  hath  need  to  sleep, 
Sometimes,  like  a  spent  labourer,  calling  home 
His  boisterous  billows,  from  their  vexing  play, 


NIAGARA.  135 


To  a  long  dreary  calm :  but  thy  strong  tide 
Faints  not,  nor  e'er  with  failing  heart  forgets 
Its  everlasting  lesson,  night  nor  day. 
The  morning  stars,  that  hail'd  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  hoarse  anthem  mixing  with  their  song 
Jehovah's  name ;  and  the  dissolving  fires, 
That  wait  the  mandate  of  the  day  of  doom 
To  wreck  the  earth,  shall  find  it  deep  inscribed 
Upon  thy  rocky  scroll. 

The  lofty  trees 

That  list  thy  teachings,  scorn  the  lighter  lore 
Of  the  too  fitful  winds ;  while  their  young  leaves 
Gather  fresh  greenness  from  thy  living  spray, 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.     Lo  !  yon  birds, 
How  bold  they  venture  near,  dipping  their  wing 
In  all  thy  mist  and  foam.     Perchance  'tis  meet 
For  them  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  or  stir 
Thy  diamond  wreath,  who  sport  upon  the  cloud 
Unblamed,  or  warble  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.     But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawful  with  our  erring  lips  to  talk 
Familiarly  of  thee.     Methinks,  to  trace 
Thine  awful  features  with  our  pencil's  point 
Were  but  to  press  on  Sinai. 

Thou  dost  speak 
Alone  of  God,  who  pour'd  thee  as  a  drop 


136  NIAGARA. 


From  his  right-hand, — bidding  the  soul  that  looks 
Upon  thy  fearful  majesty  be  still, 
Be  humbly  wrapp'd  in  its  own  nothingness, 
And  lose  itself  in  Him. 


THE   CORAL   INSECT.  137 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 

TOIL  on  !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 
Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main ; 
Toil  on  !  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 
With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock; 
Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave. 
And  your  arches  spring  up  through  the  crested  wave ; 
Ye're  a  puny  race  thus  boldly  to  rear 
A  fabric  so  vast  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  scai'd,  and  the  surge  a  stone; 
Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavemenl;  spring, 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king ; 
The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  roll'd, 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold, 
The  sea-snatch' d  isle  is  the  home  of  men, 
And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 


138  THE    CORAL   INSECT. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field; 
Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield ; 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up ; 
There's  a  poison  drop  in  man's  purest  cup ; 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle-breath : 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  ? 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white. 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright : 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold 
With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold ; 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frown' d  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  mid  their  halls  of  glee : 
Hath  earth  no  graves  ?  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  with  the  thronging  dead  ? 

Ye  build  !  ye  build !  but  ye  enter  not  in, 
Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devour'd  in  their  sin ; 
From  the  land  of  promise  ye  fade  and  die, 
Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  wearied  eye. 
As  the  cloud-crown' d  pyramids'  founders  sleep 
Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep, 
Ye  slumber  unmark'd  mid  the  watery  plain, 
While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 


THE    SUNDAY-SCHOOL.  139 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 

GROUP  after  group  are  gathering,  such  as  prest 

Once  to  their  Saviour's  arms,  and  gently  laid 
Their  cherub  heads  upon  his  shielding  breast, 

Though  sterner  souls  the  fond  approach  forbade ; 
Group  after  group  glide  on  with  noiseless  tread 

And  round  Jehovah's  sacred  altar  meet, 
Where  holy  thoughts  in  infant  hearts  are  bred, 

And  holy  words  their  ruby  lips. repeat, 
Oft  with  a  chasten' d  glance,  in  modulation  sweet. 

Yet  some  there  are,  upon  whose  childish  brows 

Wan  poverty  hath  done  the  work  of  care ; 
Look  up,  ye  sad  ones  ! — 'tis  your  Father's  house 

Beneath  whose  consecrated  dome  you  are ; 
More  gorgeous  robes  ye  see,  and  trappings  rare, 

And  watch  the  gaudier  forms  that  gayly  rove, 
And  deem  perchance,  mistaken  as  you  are, 

The  "coat  of  many  colours"  proves  His  love, 
Whose  sign  is  in  the  heart  and  whose  reward  above. 


140  THE    SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 

And  ye,  blest  labourers  in  this  humble  sphere, 

To  deeds  of  saint-like  charity  inclined, 
Who  from  your  cells  of  meditation  dear 

Come  forth  to  guide  the  weak,  untutor'd  mind- 
Yet  ask  no  payment,  save  one  smile  refined 

Of  grateful  love,  one  tear  of  contrite  pain, — 
Meekly  ye  forfeit  to  your  mission  kind 

The  rest  of  earthly  Sabbaths.     Be  your  gain 
A  Sabbath  without  end,  mid  yon  celestial  plain. 


oon  r  r,,  wiot  p  r , 


THE   INDIAN   SUMMER  14. 


THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

WHEN  was  the  red  man's  summer  ? 

When  the  rose 

Hung  its  first  banner  out  ?     When  the  gray  rock, 
Or  the  brown  heath,  the  radiant  kalmia  clothed  ? 
Or  when  the  loiterer  by  the  reedy  brooks 
Started  to  see  the  proud  lobelia  glow 
Like  living  flame  ?     When  through  the  forest  gleam'd 
The  rhododendron  ?  or  the  fragrant  breath 
Of  the  magnolia  swept  deliciously 
O'er  the  half  laden  nerve  ? 

No.    When  the  groves 
In  fleeting  colours  wrote  their  own  decay, 
And  leaves  fell  eddying  on  the  sharpen'd  blast 
That  sang  their  dirge ;  when  o'er  their  rustling  bed 
The  red  deer  sprang,  or  fled  the  shrill-voiced  quail, 
Heavy  of  wing  and  fearful ;  when,  with  heart 
Foreboding  or  depress'd,  the  white  man  mark'd 
The  signs  of  coming  winter :  then  began 


142  THE   INDIAN    SUMMER. 


The  Indian's  joyous  season.*     Then  the  haze, 

Soft  and  illusive  as  a  fairy  dream, 

Lapp'd  all  the  landscape  in  its  silvery  fold. 

The  quiet  rivers,  that  were  wont  to  hide 

'Neath  shelving  banks,  beheld  their  course  betray'd 

By  the  white  mist  that  o'er  their  foreheads  crept, 

While  wrapp'd  in  morning  dreams,  the  sea  and  sky 

Slept  'neath  one  curtain,  as  if  both  were  merged 

In  the  same  element.     Slowly  the  sun, 

And  all  reluctantly,  the  spell  dissolved, 

And  then  it  took  upon  its  parting  wing 

A  rainbow  glory. 

Gorgeous  was  the  time, 
Yet  brief  as  gorgeous.     Beautiful  to  thee, 
Our  brother  hunter,  but  to  us  replete 
With  musing  thoughts  in  melancholy  train. 
Our  joys,  alas !  too  oft  were  wo  to  thee. 
Yet  ah,  poor  Indian !  whom  we  fain  would  drive 
Both  from  our  hearts,  and  from  thy  father's  lands, 
The  perfect  year  doth  bear  thee  on  its  crown, 
And  when  we  would  forget,  repeat  thy  name. 


*  An  aged  chief  said  to  our  ancestors,  "  The  white  man's  summer  is  past  and  gone, 
but  that  of  the  Indian  begins  when  the  leaves  fall." 


THE   HERMIT   OF     THE    FALLS.  H3 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  FALLS. 

IT  was  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
And  joyous  Nature,  all  in  tune, 

With  wreathing  buds  was  drest, 
As  toward  Niagara's  fearful  side 

A  youthful  stranger  prest. 
His  ruddy  cheek  was  blanch' d  with  awe, 
And  scarce  he  seem'd  his  breath  to  draw, 

While,  bending  o'er  its  brim, 
He  mark'd  its  strong,  unfathom'd  tide, 

And  heard  its  thunder-hymn. 

His  measured  week  too  quickly  fled, 
Another,  and  another  sped, 
And  soon  the  summer  rose  decay 'd, 
The  moon  of  autumn  sank  in  shade, 
Years  fill'd  their  circle  brief  and  fair, 
Yet  still  the  enthusiast  linger 'd  there, 


144  THE   HERMIT    OF    THE  FALLS. 

Till  winter  hmi'd  its  dart; 
For  deeply  round  his  soul  was  wove 
A  mystic  chain  of  quenchless  love, 

That  would  not  let  him  part. 
When  darkest  midnight  veil'd  the  sky, 
You'd  hear  his  hasting  step  go  by, 
To  gain  the  bridge  beside  the  deep, 
That  thread-like  o'er  the  surge 
Shot,  where  the  wildest  torrents  leap, 

And  there,  upon  its  awful  verge, 
His  vigil  lone  to  keep. 

And  when  the  moon,  descending  low, 
Hung  on  the  flood  that  gleaming  bow, 
Which  it  would  seem  some  angel's  hand 
With  heaven's  own  pencil  tinged  and  spann'd, 
Pure  symbol  of  a  better  land, 
He,  kneeling,  poured  in  utterance  free 
The  eloquence  of  ecstasy ; 
Though  to  his  words  no  answer  came, 
Save  that  One,  Everlasting  Name, 
Which,  since  Creation's  morning  broke, 
Niagara's  lip  alone  hath  spoke. 

When  wintry  tempests  shook  the  sky, 
And  the  rent  pine-tree  hurtled  by, 


THE    HERMIT   OF    1HE   FALLS.  345 

Unblenching  mid  the  storm  he  stood, 
And  mark'd  sublime  the  wrathful  flood, 
While  wrought  the  frost-king  fierce  and  drear, 
His  palace  mid  those  cliffs  to  rear, 

And  strike  the  massy  buttress  strong, 

And  pile  his  sleet  the  rocks  among, 

And  wasteful  deck  the  branches  bare 

With  icy  diamonds,  rich  and  rare. 

NOT  lack'd  the  hermit's  humble  shed 

Such  comforts  as  our  natures  ask 

To  fit  them  for  their  daily  task, — 
The  cheering  fire,  the  peaceful  bed, 
The  simple  meal  in  season  spread: 
While  by  the  lone  lamp's  trembling  light, 
As  blazed  the  hearth-stone  clear  and  bright, 

O'er  Homer's  page  he  hung, 
Or  Maro's  martial  numbers  scann'd, 
For  classic  lore  of  many  a  land 

Flow'd  smoothly  o'er  his  tongue. 
Oft,  with  rapt  eye  and  skill  profound, 
He  woke  the  entrancing  viol's  sound, 

Or  touch' d  the  sweet  guitar, 
For  heavenly  music  deign'd  to  dweJl 
An  inmate  in  his  cloister'd  cell, 

As  beams  the  solemn  star 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE   FALLS. 


All  night,  with  meditative  eyes, 

Where  some  lone  rock-bound  fountain  lies. 

As  through  the  groves  with  quiet  tread, 

On  his  accustom'd  haunts  he  sped, 

The  mother-thrush,  unstartled,  sung 

Her  descant  to  her  callow  young, 

And  fearless  o'er  his  threshold  prest 

The  wanderer  from  the  sparrow's  nest  ; 

The  squirrel  raised  a  sparkling  eye, 

Nor  from  his  kernel  cared  to  fly 

As  pass'd  that  gentle  hermit  by; 

No  timid  creature  shrank  to  meet 

His  pensive  glance,  serenely  sweet  ; 

From  his  own  kind,  alone,  he  sought 

Tne  screen  of  solitary  thought. 

Whether  the  world  too  harshly  prest 

Its  iron  o'er  a  yielding  breast, 

Or  taught  his  morbid  youth  to  prove 

The  pang  of  unrequited  love, 

We  know  not,  for  he  never  said 

Aught  of  the  life  that  erst  he  led. 

On  Iris  isle,  a  summer  bower 
He  twined  with  branch,  and  vine,  and  flower, 
And  there  he  mused,  on  rustic  seat, 
Unconscious  of  the  noonday  heat, 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE   FALLS.  147 

Or  'neath  the  crystal  waters  lay, 
Luxuriant,  in  the  swimmer's  play. 
Yet  once,  the  whelming  flood  grew  strong, 
And  bore  him  like  a  weed  along, 
Though,  with  convulsive  throes  of  pain 
And  heaving  breast,  he  strove  in  vain ; 
Then  sinking  'neath  the  infuriate  tide, 
Lone  as  he  lived,  the  hermit  died. 

On,  by  the  rushing  current  swept, 
The  lifeless  corse  its  voyage  kept, 
To  where,  in  narrow  gorge  comprest, 
The  whirling  eddies  never  rest, 
But  boil  with  wild  tumultuous  sway, 
The  maelstrom  of  Niagara. 
And  there,  within  that  rocky  bound, 
In  swift  gyrations  round  and  round, 

Mysterious  course  it  held; 
Now  springing  from  the  torrent  hoarse, 
Now  battling  as  with  maniac  force, 

To  mortal  strife  compell'd. 

Right  fearful  'neath  the  moonbeam  bright, 
It  was  to  see  that  brow  so  white, 

And  mark  the  ghastly  dead 
Leap  upward  from  his  torture-bed, 


143  THE   HERMIT   OF    THE   FALLS. 

As  if  in  passion-gust, 
And  tossing  wild  with  agony, 
To  mock  the  omnipotent  decree 

Of  dust  to  dust. 

At  length,  where  smoother  waters  flow, 
Emerging  from  the  gulf  below, 
The  hapless  youth  they  gain'd,  and  bore 
Sad  to  his  own  forsaken  door. 
There  watch' d  his  dog  with  straining  eye, 
And  scarce  would  let  the  train  pass  by, 

Save  that,  with  instinct's  rushing  spell, 
Through  the  changed  cheek's  empurpled  hue, 
And  stiff  and  stony  form,  he  knew 

The  master  he  had  loved  so  well. 

The  kitten  fair,  whose  graceful  wile 
So  oft  had  won  his  musing  smile, 
As  at  his  foot  she  held  her  play, 
Stretch' d  on  his  vacant  pillow  lay. 
While  strew' d  around,  on  board  and  chair, 

The  last  pluck'd  flower,  the  book  last  read, 

The  ready  pen,  the  page  outspread, 
The  water-cruse,  the  unbroken  bread, 

Reveal' d  how  sudden  was  the  snare 
That  swept  him  to  the  dead. 


THE   HERMIT  OF   THE   FALLS.  149 

And  so  he  rests  in  foreign  earth, 
Who  drew  mid  Albion's  vales  his  birth ; 
Yet  let  no  cynic  phrase  unkind 
Condemn  that  youth  of  gentle  mind, 
Of  shrinking  nerve  and  lonely  heart, 
And  letter'd  lore  and  tuneful  art, 

Who  here  his  humble  worship  paid, 
In  that  most  glorious  temple-shrine, 
Where  to  the  Majesty  divine 

Nature  her  noblest  altar  made. 

No,  blame  him  not,  but  praise  the  Power 
Who  in  the  dear,  domestic  bower, 
Hath  given  you  firmer  strength  to  rear 
The  plants  of  love  with  toil  and  fear, 
The  beam  to  meet,  the  blast  to  dare, 
And  like  a  faithful  soldier  bear. 
Still  with  sad  heart  his  requiem  pour, 
Amid  the  cataract's  ceaseless  roar, 
Nor  grudge  one  tear  of  pitying  gloom 
To  dew  that  sad  enthusiast's  tomb. 


150  THE   BUTTERFLY. 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

A  BUTTERFLY  bask'd  on  a  baby's  grave 

Where  a  lily  had  chanced  to  grow : 
"  Why  art  thou  here  with  thy  gaudy  dye, 
When  she  of  the  blue  and  sparkling  eye 
Must  sleep  in  the  churchyard  low?" 

Then  it  lightly  soar'd  through  the  sunny  air, 

And  spoke  from  its  shining  track : 
"I  was  a  worm  till  I  won  my  wings, 
And  she  whom  thou  mourn'st,  like  a  seraph  sings 

Wouldst  thou  call  the  bless'd  one  back  ?" 


SOLITUDE.  151 


SOLITUDE. 

DEEP  solitude  I  sought.     There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While,  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  back-ground  'gainst  the  sky.     . 

Thither  I  went, 

And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world.     I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness.     But  the  violet's  eye 
Look'd  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek. 
There  were  glad  voices  too.     The  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history.     Up  came  the  singing  breeze, 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one.     E'en  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell.     The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 


152  SOLITUDE. 


The  rifled  grain,  toil'd  toward  her  citadel. 
To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 
While  from  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Sang  to  her  nurslings. 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love !    It  might  not  be  ! — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 
Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joy,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness.     E'en  the  desert  place 
Speaketh  thy  name.     The  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent ;  and  he 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  drest, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


THE    SECOND   BIRTH-DAY.  153 


THE  SECOND  BIRTH-DAY. 

THOU  dost  not  dream,  my  little  one, 

How  great  the  change  must  be, 
These  two  years,  since  the  morning  sun 

First  shed  his  beams  on  thee. 
Thy  little  hands  did  helpless  fall, 

As  with  a  stranger's  fear, 
And  a  faint  wailing  cry  was  all 

That  met  thy  mother's  ear. 

But  now  the  dictates  of  thy  will 

Thine  active  feet  obey, 
And,  pleased,  thy  busy  fingers  still 

Among  thy  playthings  stray ; 
And  thy  full  eyes  delighted  rove 

The  pictured  page  along, 
And,  lisping  to  the  heart  of  love, 

Thy  thousand  wishes  throng. 


154  -  THE    SECOND   BIRTH-DAY. 

Fair  boy  !  the  wanderings  of  thy  way 

It  is  not  mine  to  trace, 
Through  buoyant  youth's  exulting  day, 

Or  manhood's  bolder  race : 
What  discipline  thy  heart  may  need, 

What  clouds  may  veil  thy  sun, 
The  eye  of  God  alone  can  read — 

And  let  his  will  be  done. 

Yet  might  a  mother's  prayer  of  love 

Thy  destiny  control; 
Those  boasted  gifts  that  often  prove 

The  ruin  of  the  soul, 
Beauty  and  fortune,  wit  and  fame, 

For  thee  it  would  not  crave, 
But  tearful  urge  a  fervent  claim 

To  joys  beyond  the  grave. 

0  !  be  thy  wealth  an  upright  heart, 

Thy  strength  the  sufferer's  stay, 
Thine  early  choice  that  better  part' 

Which  cannot  fade  away; 
Thy  zeal  for  Christ  a  quenchless  fire, 

Thy  friends  the  men  of  peace, 
Thy  heritage  an  angel's  lyre 

When  earthly  changes  cease. 


THE   DEAD   HORSEMAN.  155 


THE  DEAD  HOESEMAN. 


Occasioned  by  reading  the  manner  of  conveying  a  young  man  to  burial  in  the  moun 
tainous  region  about  Vettie's  Giel,  in  Norway. 


WHO'S  riding  o'er  the  Giel  so  fast, 

Mid  the  crags  of  Utledale  ? 
He  heeds  not  cold  nor  storm  nor  blast ; 

But  his  cheek  is  deadly  pale. 

A  fringe  of  pearl  from  his  eyelash  long 

Stern  winter's  hand  hath  hung ; 
And  his  sinewy  arm  looks  bold  and  strong, 

Though  his  brow  is  smooth  and  young. 

Round  his  marble  forehead,  in  clusters  bright, 

Is  wreathed  his  golden  hair ; 
His  robe  is  of  linen,  long  and  white, 
Though  a  mantle  of  fur  scarce  could  'bide  the  blight 

Of  his  keen  and  frosty  air. 


155  THE   DEAD   HORSEMACf 

God  speed  thee  now,  thou  horseman  bold ! 

For  the  tempest  awakes  in  wrath ; 
And  thy  stony  eye  is  fix'd  and  cold 

As  the  glass  of  thine  icy  path. 

Down,  down  the  precipice  wild  he  breaks, 

Where  the  foaming  waters  roar ; 
And  his  way  up  the  cliff  of  the  mountain  takes, 

Where  man  never  trod  before. 

No  checking  hand  to  the  rein  he  lends, 

On  slippery  summits  sheen; 
But  ever  and  aye  his  head  he  bends 

At  the  plunge  in  some  dark  ravine. 

Dost  thou  bow  in  prayer  to  the  God  who  guides 

Thy  course  o'er  such  pavement  frail? 
Or  nod  in  thy  dream  on  the  steep,  where  glides 
The  curdling  brook  with  its  slippery  tides, 
Thou  horseman  so  young  and  pale  ? 

Swift,  swift  o'er  the  breast  of  the  frozen  streams, 

Toward  Lystcr  Church  he  hies, 
Whose  holy  spire  mid  the  glaciers  gleams, 

Like  a  star  in  troubled  skies. 


THE    DEAD   HORSEMAN.  157 

Now  stay,  thou  ghostly  traveller — stay ; 

Why  haste  in  such  mad  career? 
Be  the  guilt  of  thy  bosom  as  dark  as  it  may, 

'Twere  better  to  purge  it  here. 

On,  on !  like  the  winged  blast  he  wends, 
Where  moulder  the  bones  of  the  dead — 

Wilt  thou  stir  the  sleep  of  thy  buried  friends, 
With  thy  courser's  tramping  tread  ? 

At  a  yawning  pit,  whose  narrow  brink 

Mid  the  swollen  snow  was  grooved, 
He  paused.     The  steed  from  that  chasm  did  shrink, 

But  the  rider  sate  unmoved. 

Then  down  at  once,  from  his  lonely  seat, 

They  lifted  the  horseman  pale, 
And  laid  him  low  in  that  drear  retreat, 
And  pour'd,  in  dirge-like  measure  sweet, 

The  mournful  funeral  wail. 

Bold  youth,  whose  bosom  with  pride  had  glow'd 

In  a  life  of  toil  severe — 
Didst  thou  scorn  to  pass  to  thy  last  abode 

In  the  ease  of  the  slothful  bier  ? 


158  THE    DEAD   HORSEMAN. 

Must  thy  own  good  steed,  which  thy  hands  had  drest, 

In  the  fulness  of  boyhood's  bliss, 
By  the  load  of  thy  lifeless  limbs  be  prest, 

On  a  journey  so  strange  as  this  ? 

Yet  still  to  the  depth  of  yon  rock-barr'd  dell, 

Where  no  ray  from  heaven  hath  glow'd, 
Where  the  thundering  rush  of  the  Markefoss  fell, 
The  trembling  child  doth  point  and  tell 
How  that  fearful  horseman  rode. 


TO   A    SHRED   OF   LINEN.  159 


TO  A  SHRED  OF  LINEN. 

WOULD  they  swept  cleaner  ! 

Here's  a  littering  shred 
Of  linen  left  behind — a  vile  reproach 
To  all  good  housewifery.     Right' glad  am  I 
That  no  neat  lady,  train' d  in  ancient  times 
Of  pudding-making,  and  of  sampler-work, 
And  speckless  sanctity  of  household  care, 
Hath  happen' d  here  to  spy  thee.     She,  no  doubt, 
Keen  looking  through  her  spectacles,  would  say, 
"  This  comes  of  reading  books."     Or  some  spruce  beau, 
Essenced  and  lily-handed,  had  he  chanced 
To  scan  thy  slight  superfices,  'twould  be, 
"  This  comes  of  writing  poetry." — Well,  well, 
Come  forth,  offender  ! — hast  thou  aught  to  say  ? 
Canst  thou,  by  merry  thought  or  quaint  conceit, 
Repay  this  risk  that  I  have  run  for  thee  ? 

Begin  at  alpha,  and  resolve  thyself 

Into  thine  elements.     I  see  the  stalk 

And  bright  blue  flower  of  flax,  which  erst  o'erspread 


160  TO    A    SHRED    OF   LINEN. 

That  fertile  land,  where  mighty  Moses  stretch' d 
His  rod  miraculous.     I  see  thy  bloom 
Tinging,  too  scantly,  these  New  England  vales. 
But,  lo !  the  sturdy  farmer  lifts  his  flail 
To  crush  thy  bones  unpitying,  and  his  wife. 
With  kerchief  d  head  and  eye  brimfull  of  dust, 
Thy  fibrous  nerves  with  hatchel-tooth  divides. 

1  hear  a  voice  of  music — and  behold  ! 

The  ruddy  damsel  singeth  at  her  wheel, 
While  by  her  side  the  rustic  lover  sits. 
Perchance,  his  shrewd  eye  secretly  doth  count 
The  mass  of  skeins,  which,  hanging  on  the  wall, 
Increaseth  day  by  day.     Perchance  his  thought 
(For  men  have  deeper  minds  than  women — sure  !) 
Is  calculating  what  a  thrifty  wife 
The  maid  will  make ;  and  how  his  dairy  shelves  . 
Shall  groan  beneath  the  weight  of  golden  cheese, 
Made  by  her  dexterous  hand,  while  many  a  keg 
And  pot  of  butter  to  the  market  borne, 
May,  transmigrated,  on  his  back  appear 
In  new  thanksgiving  coats. 

Fain  would  I  ask, 

Mine  own  New  England,  for  thy  once  loved  wheel, 
By  sofa  and  piano  quite  displaced. 
Why  dost  thou  banish  from  thy  parlour  hearth 
That  old  Hygeian  harp,  whose  magic  ruled     . 


TO  A  SHRED   OF   LINEN.  161 

Dyspepsia,  as  the  minstrel-shepherd's  skill 
Exorcised  Saul's  ennui?     There  was  no  need, 
In  those  good  times  of  callisthenics,  sure  ; 
And  there  was  less  of  gadding,  and  far  more 
Of  home-born,  heart-felt  comfort,  rooted  strong 
In  industry,  and  bearing  such  rare  fruit 
As  wealth  might  never  purchase. 

But  come  back, 

Thou  shred  of  linen.     I  did  let  thee  drop 
In  my  harangue,  as  wiser  ones  have  lost 
The  thread  of  their  discourse.     What  was  thy  lot 
When  the  rough  battery  of  the  loom  had  stretch'd 
And  knit  thy  sinews,  and  the  chemist  sun 
Thy  brown  complexion  bleach'd? 

Methinks  I  scan 

Some  idiosyncrasy  that  marks  thee  out 
A  defunct  pillow-case.     Did  the  trim  guest, 
To  the  best  chamber  usher'd,  e'er  admire 
The  snowy  whiteness  of  thy  freshen' d  youth, 
Feeding  thy  vanity?  or  some  sweet  babe 
Pour  its  pure  dream  of  innocence  on  thee  ? 
Say,  hast  thou  listen'd  to  the  sick  one's  moan, 
When  there  was  none  to  comfort  ? — or  shrunk  back 
From  the  dire  tossings  of  the  proud  man's  brow  ? 
Or  gather'd  from  young  beauty's  restless  sigh 
A  tale  of  untold  love  ? 


162 


TO    A   SHRED   OF    LINEN. 


Still  close  and  mute ! — 

Wilt  tell  no  secrets,  ha? — Well  then,  go  down, 
With  all  thy  churl-kept  hoard  of  curious  lore, 
In  majesty  and  mystery,  go  down 
Into  the  paper-mill,  and  from  its  jaws, 
Stainless  and  smooth,  emerge.     Happy  shall  be 
The  renovation,  if  on  thy  fair  page 
Wisdom  and  truth  their  hallow' d  lineaments 
Trace  for  posterity.     So  shall  thine  end 
Be  better  than  thy  birth,  and  worthier  bard 
Thine  apotheosis  immortalize. 


FAKEWELL   TO   A   RURAL    RESIDENCE. 


163 


FAREWELL  TO  A  RURAL  RESIDENCE. 


How  beautiful  it  stands, 

Behind  its  elm-tree's  screen, 
With  simple  attic  cornice  crown'd, 

All  graceful  and  serene ! 
Most  sweet,  yet  sad,  it  is 

Upon  yon  scene  to  gaze, 
And  list  its  inborn  melody, 

The  voice  of  other  days. 

For  there,  as  many  a  year 

Its  varied  chart  unroll' d, 
I  hid  me  in  those  quiet  shades, 

And  call'd  the  joys  of  old; 
I  call'd  them,  and  they  came 

When  vernal  buds  appear'd, 
Or  where  the  vine-clad  summer  bower 

Its  temple-roof  uprear'd; 


164         FAREWELL   TO   A    RURAL   RESIDENCE. 

Or  where  the  o'erarching  grove 

Spread  forth  its  copses  green, 
While  eyebright  and  asclepias  rear'd 

Their  untrain'd  stalks  between, 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 

His  broken  nuts  let  fall, 
And  the  merry,  merry  little  birds 

Sang  at  his  festival. 

Yon  old  forsaken  nests 

Returning  spring  shall  cheer, 
And  thence  the  unfledged  robin  breathe 

His  greeting  wild  and  clear; 
And  from  yon  clustering  vine, 

That  wreathes  the  casement  round, 
The  humming-bird's  unresting  wing 

Send  forth  a  whirring  sound ; 

And  where  alternate  springs 

The  lilac's  purple  spire 
Fast  by  its  snowy  sister's  side ; 

Or  where,  with  wing  of  fire, 
The  kingly  oriole  glancing  went 

Amid  the  foliage  rarej 
Shall  many  a  group  of  children  tread, 

But  mine  will  not  be  there. 


FAREWELL   TO   A    RURAL   RESIDENCE. 


165 


Fain  would  I  know  what  forms 

The  mastery  here  shall  keep, 
What  mother  in  yon  nursery  fair 

Shall  rock  her  babes  to  sleep : 
Yet  blessings  on  the  hallow' d  spot, 

Though  here  no  more  I  stray, 
And  blessings  on  the  stranger-babes 

Who  in  those  halls  shall  play. 

Heaven  bless  you,  too,  my  plants, 

And  every  parent  bird 
That  here,  among  the  woven  boughs, 

Above  its  young  hath  stirr'd. 
I  kiss  your  trunks,  ye  ancient  trees, 

That  often  o'er  my  head 
The  blossoms  of  your  glorious  spring 

In  fragrant  showers  have  shed. 

Thou,  too,  of  fitful  mood, 

I  thank  thee,  murmuring  stream, 
That  blent  thine  echo  with  my  thought, 

Or  woke  my  musing  dream. 
I  kneel  upon  .the  verdant  turf, 

For  sure  my  thanks  are  due 
To  moss-cup  and  to  clover-leaf, 

That  gave  me  draughts  of  dew. 


166 


FAREWELL  TO  A    RURAL    RESIDENCE. 


To  each  perennial  flower, 

Old  tenants  of  the  spot, 
The  broad-leaf  'd  lily  of  the  vale, 

And  the  meek  forget-me-not, 
To  every  daisy's  dappled  brow, 

To  every  violet  blue, 
Thanks  !  thanks  !  may  each  returning  year 

Your  changeless  bloom  renew. 

Praise  to  our  Father-God, 

High  praise,  in  solemn  lay, 
Alike  for  what  his  hand  hath  given, 

And  what  it  takes  away : 
And  to  some  other  loving  heart 

May  all  this  beauty  be 
The  dear  retreat,  the  Eden-hoine 

That  it  hath  been  to  me. 


BAKZILLAI   THE   GILEADITE. 


BARZILLAI  THE  GILEADITE. 


"Let  xae  be  buried  by  the  grave  of  my  father  and  of  my  mother."—  2  SAM.  xix.  37. 


of  Jesse  !  let  me  go, 

Why  should  princely  honours  stay  me  ? 
Where  the  streams  of  Gilead  flow, 
Where  the  light  first  met  mine  eye, 
Thither  would  I  turn  and  die  ; 
Where  my  parents'  ashes  lie, 

King  of  Israel  !  bid  them  lay  me. 

Bury  me  near  my  sire  revered, 
Who  righteous  paths  so  firmly  trod, 
Who  early  taught  my  soul  with  awe 
To  heed  the  Prophets  and  the  Law, 

And  to  my  infant  heart  appear'd 
Majestic  as  a  God: 

Oh  !  when  his  sacred  dust 
The  cerements  of  the  tomb  shall  burst, 


168  BARZILLAI    THE    GILEAD1TE. 

Might  I  be  worthy  at  his  feet  to  rise, 

To  yonder  blissful  skies, 
Where  angel-hosts  resplendent  shine, 
Jehovah  !  Lord  of  Hosts,  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Cold  age  upon  my  breast 
Hath  shed  a  frost  like  death ; 
The  wine-cup  hath  no  zest, 
The  rose  no  fragrant  breath ; 

Music  from  my  ear  hath  fled, 
Yet  still  one  sweet  tone  lingereth  there, 
The  blessing  that  my  mother  shed 
Upon  my  evening  prayer. 

Dim  is  my  wasted  eye 
To  all  that  beauty  brings, 
The  brow  of  grace — the  form  of  symmetry 

Are  half-forgotten  things ; 
Yet  one  bright  hue  is  vivid  still, 
A  mother's  holy  smile,  that  soothed  my  sharpest  ill. 

Memory,  with  traitor-tread 

Methinks,  doth  steal  away 
Treasures  that  the  mind  had  laid 

Up  for  a  wintry  day. 
Images  of  sacred  power, 
Cherish'd  deep  in  passion's  hour, 


BARZILLAT   THE   GILEADITE  169 

Faintly  now  my  bosom  stir, 
Good  and  evil  like  a  dream 
Half  obscured  and  shadowy  seem, 
Yet  with  a  changeless  love  my  soul  remembereth  her, 

Yea — it  remembereth  her : 
Close  by  her  blessed  side,  make  ye  my  sepulchre. 


170  GOSSIP   WITH   A   BOUQUET. 


GOSSIP  WITH  A  BOUQUET. 

SPEAK,  speak,  sweet  guests. 

Yes,  ope  your  lips  in  words, 
'Tis  my  delight  to  talk  with  you,  and  fain 
I'd  have  an  answer.     I've  been  long  convinced 
You  understand  me,  though  you  do  not  choose 
To  wear  your  bright  thoughts  on  your  finger-tips, 
For  all  to  sport  with. 

Lily  of  the  vale, 

And  you,  meek  Violet,  with  your  eyes  of  blue, 
I  call  on  you  the  first,  for  well  I  know 
How  prone  the  village  maiden  is  to  hide 
Her  clear  good  sense  among  the  city  folks, 
Unless  well  urged,  and  fortified  to  speak. 

0  purple  Pansy  !  friend  of  earliest  years, 
You're  always  welcome.     Hath  no  grandame  told 
You  of  your  ancestors,  who  flourish'd  fair 
Upon  the  margin  of  my  native  Thames  ? 


GOSSIP   WITH    A   BOUQUET.  171 

'Twas  not  the  fond  garrulity  of  age, 

That  made  her  laud  the  past,  without  respect 

To  verity ;  for  I  remember  well 

How  beautiful  they  were,  and  with  what  pride 

I  used  to  pluck  them,  when  my  school  was  o'er, 

And  love  to  place  them,  rich  with  breathing  sweets, 

Between  my  Bible  leaves,  and  find  them  there 

Month  after  month,  pressing  their  bosoms  close 

To  some  undying  hope. 

Bright  Hyacinth, 

I'm  glad  you've  brought  your  little  ones.     How  snug 
You  wrap  them  in  their  hoods.     But  still  I  see 
Their  merry  eyes  and  their  plump  cheeks  peep  out. 
Ah  !  here's  the  baby,  in  its  blanket  too. 
You're  a  good  mother,  sure.     Don't  be  in  haste 
To  take  their  mantles  off;  the  morn  is  chill ; 
I'd  rather  see  them  one  by  one  come  forth, 
Just  when  they  please.     A  charming  family  ! 
And  very  happy  you  must  doubtless  be 
In  their  sweet  promise  and  your  matron  care. 

Gay,  graceful  Tulip,  did  you  learn  in  France 
Your  taste  for  dress  ?  and  how  to  hold  your  head 
So  elegantly  ?     In  the  gale  yestreen, 
That  o'er  the  parterre  swept  with  sudden  force, 
I  thought  I  saw  you  waltzing.     Have  a  care, 


172  GOSSIP   WITH    A   BOUQUET. 

And  do  not  look  disdainfully  on  those 
You  call  plebeian  flowers,  because,  you  know, 
We  live  in  a  republic,  where  the  strength 
Comes  from  beneath,  and  many  a  change  occurs 
To  lop  the  haughty  and  to  lift  the  low. 

Good  neighbour  Cowslip,  I  have  seen  the  bee 
Whispering  to  you,  and  have  been  told  he  stays 
Quite  long  and  late  amid  your  golden  cells. 
Is  it  not  business  that  he  comes  upon — • 
Matter-of-fact  ?     He  never  wastes  an  hour. 
Know  you  that  he's  a  subtle  financier, 
And  shows  some  gain  for  every  day  he  spends  ? 
Oh  !  learn  from  him  the  priceless  worth  of  time, 
Thou  fair  and  frail !     So  shalt  thou  prove  the  truth, 
That  he  who  makes  companion  of  the  wise 
Shall  in  their  wisdom  share. 

Narcissus  pale ! 

Had  e'er  a  governess,  who  kept  you  close 
Over  your  needle  or  your  music  books  ? 
Not  suffering  you  to  sweep  a  room,  or  make 
A  pudding  in  the  kitchen  ?     I'm  afraid 
She  shut  you  from  the  air  and  fervid  sun, 
To  keep  you  delicate,  or  let  you  draw 
Your  corset-cord  too  tight.     I  would  you  were 
As  hardy  as  your  cousin  Daffodil, 


GOSSIP   WITH    A    BOUQUET.  173 

Who  to  the  sharp  wind  turns  her  buxom  cheek 
Unshrinking,  like  a  damsel  taught  to  spin, 
And  milk  the  cows, — her  nerves  by  labour  strung 
To  bear  its  duties  and  its  burdens  too. 

Lilac  of  Persia  !  tell  us  some  fine  tale 
Of  Eastern  lands.     We're  fond  of  travellers. 
Have  you  no  legend  of  some  sultan  proud, 
Or  old  fire-worshipper  ?     What !  not  one  note 
Made  on  your  voyage  ?     Well,  'tis  wondrous  strange 
That  you  should  let  so  rare  a  chance  slip  by, 
While  those  who  never  journey'd  half  as  far 
Fill  sundry  volumes,  and  expect  the  world 
To  reverently  peruse  and  magnify 
What  it  well  knew  before. 

Most  glorious  Hose, 

You  are  the  queenly  belle.     On  you,  all  eyes 
Admiring  turn.     Doubtless  you  might  indite 
Romances  from  your  own  sweet  history. 
They're  quite  the  fashion  now,  and  crowd  the  page 
Of  every  periodical.     Wilt  tell 
None  of  your  heart-adventures  ?     Never  mind ! 
We  plainly  read  the  zephyr's  stolen  kiss 
In  your  deep  blush ;  so  where's  the  use  to  seal 
Your  lips  so  cunningly,  when  all  the  world 
Call  you  the  flower  of  love  ? 


174  GOSSIP   WITH   A   BOUQUST. 

And  now  good-bye,- 
A  pleasant  gossip  have  I  had  with  you, 
Obliging  visitants,  but  must  away 
To  graver  toils.     Still  keep  your  incense  fresh, 
And  free  to  rise  to  Him  who  tints  your  brows, 
Bidding  the  brown  mould  and  unsightly  stem 
Put  forth  such  blaze  of  beauty,  as  translates 
To  dullest  hearts  His  dialect  of  love. 


I'ooi  Emir;  daiLolitei  oioss'dtlie  iriani. 

In  Touthr.  unfolding  primr.'. 
Alot  of  serntud^  tc  t-ai 

In.  tins  OUT  wei-teni  clinue.  1. 


ERIN'S   DAUGHTER. 


ERIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

POOR  Erin's  daughter  cross'd  the  main 

In  youth's  unfolding  prime, 
A  lot  of  servitude  to  bear 

In  this  our  western  clime. 

And  when  the  drear  heart-sickness  came 

Beneath  a  stranger  sky, 
Tears  on  her  nightly  pillow  lay, 

But  morning  saw  them  dry. 

For  still  with  earnest  hope  she  strove 

Her  distant  home  to  cheer, 
And  from  her  parents  lift  the  load 

Of  poverty  severe. 

To  them  with  liberal  hand  she  sent 
Her  all — her  hard-earn'd  store — 

A  rapture  thrilling  through  her  soul, 
She  ne'er  had  felt  before. 


176  ERIN'S   DAUGHTER. 

E'en  mid  her  quiet  slumbers  gleam'd 

A  cabin's  lighted  pane, 
A  board  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 

A  loved  and  loving  train. 

And  so  her  life  of  earnest  toil 
With  secret  joy  was  blest, 

For  the  sweet  warmth  of  filial  love 
Made  sunshine  in  her  breast. 

But  bitter  tidings  o'er  the  wave 

With  fearful  echo  sped ; 
Gaunt  famine  o'er  her  home  had  strode, 

And  all  were  with  the  dead  ! 

All  gone  ! — her  brothers  in  their  glee, 
Her  sisters  young  and  fair; 

And  Erin's  daughter  bow'd  her  down 
In  desolate  despair. 


THE   HOLY  DEAD. 


177 


THE  HOLY  DEAD. 


1  Wherefore  I  praised  the  dead  who  are  already  dead  more  than  the  living  who  are 
yet  alive." — SOLOMON. 


THEY  dread  no  storm  that  lowers, 

No  perish' d  joys  bewail ; 
They  pluck  no  thorn-clad  flowers, 

Nor  drink  of  streams  that  fail : 
There  is  no  tear-drop  in  their  eye, 

No  change  upon  their  brow ; 
Their  placid  bosom  heaves  no  sigh 

Though  all  earth's  idols  bow. 


Who  are  so  greatly  blest  ? 

From  whom  hath  sorrow  fled  ? 
Who  share  such  deep,  unbroken  rest 

Where  all  things  toil ?     The  dead! 
The  holy  dead.     Why  weep  ye  so 

Above  yon  sable  bier  ? 
Thrice  blessed  !  they  have  done  with  wo, 

The  living  claim  the  tear. 


178  THE    HOLY   DEAD. 

Go  to  their  sleeping  bowers, 

Deck  their  low  couch  of  clay 
With  earliest  spring's  soft  breathing  flowers; 

And  when  they  fade  away, 
Think  of  the  amaranthine  wreath. 

The  garlands  never  dim, 
And  tell  me  why  thou  fly'st  from  death, 

Or  hid'st  thy  friends  from  him. 

"We  dream,  but  they  awake; 

Dread  visions  mar  our  rest ; 
Through  thorns  and  snares  our  way  we  take, 

And  yet  we  mourn  the  blest ! 
For  spirits  round  the  Eternal  Throne 

How  vain  the  tears  we  shed ! 
They  are  the  living,  they  alone, 

Whom  thus  we  call  the  dead. 


DEW-DROPS.  179 


DEW-DROPS. 

"  FATHER,  there  are  no  dew-drops  on  my  rose ; 
I  thought  to  find  them,  but  they  all  are  gone. 
Was  night  a  niggard  ?     Or  did  envious  dawn 
Steal  those  bright  diamonds  from  unwaken'd  day  ?" 

The  father  answer'd  not,  but  pointed  where 
The  sudden  falling  of  a  summer  shower 
Made  quiet  music  mid  the  quivering  leaves, 
And  through  the  hollows  of  the  freshen'd  turf 
Drew  lines  like  silver.     Then  a  bow  sprang  forth 
Spanning  the  skies. 

"See'st  thou  yon  glorious  hues, 
Violet  and  gold  ?     The  dew-drops  glitter  there, 
That  from  the  bosom  of  thy  rose  had  fled, 
My  precious  child.     Read  thou  their  lesson  well, 
That  what  is  pure  and  beautiful  on  earth 
Shall  smile  in  heaven." 

He  knew  not  that  he  spake 


180  DEW-DROPS. 


Prophetic  words.     But  ere  the  infant  moon 
S well'd  to  a  perfect  orb  her  crescent  pale, 
That  loving  soul,  which  on  the  parent's  breast 
Had  sparkled  as  a  dew-drop,  was  exhaled, 
To  mingle  mid  the  brightness  of  the  skies. 


POCAHONTAS.  181 


POCAHONTAS. 

i. 

CLIME  of  the  West !  that,  slumbering  long  and  deep, 
Beneath  thy  misty  mountains*  solemn  shade, 

And,  lull'd  by  melancholy  winds  that  sweep 
The  unshorn  forest  and  untrodden  glade, 

Heard  not  the  cry  when  mighty  empires  died, 

Nor  caught  one  echo  from  oblivion's  tide, 
While  age  on  age  its  stormy  voyage  made : 

See !  Europe,  watching  from  her  sea-girt  shore, 
Extends  the  sceptred  hand,  and  bids  thee  dream  no  more. 

II. 

Say,  was  it  sweet  in  cradled  rest  to  lie, 

And  'scape  the  ills  that  older  regions  know  ? 

Prolong  the  vision' d  trance  of  infancy, 

And  hide  from  manhood's  toil,  mischance  and  wo  ? 

Sweet,  by  the  margin  of  thy  sounding  streams 

Freely  to  rove,  and  nurse  illusive  dreams, 

Nor  taste  the  fruits  on  thorny  trees  that  grow  ? 


182  POCAHONTAS. 


The  evil,  and  the  sorrow,  and  the  crime, 
That  make  the  harass' d  earth  grow  old  before  her  time? 

III. 

Clime  of  the  West !  that  to  the  hunter's  bow, 
And  roving  hordes  of  savage  men,  wert  sold, 

Their  cone-roof'd  wigwams  pierced  the  wintry  snow, 
Their  tassel' d  corn*  crept  sparsely  through  the  mould, 

Their  bark  canoes  thy  glorious  waters  clave, 

The  chase  their  glory,  and  the  wild  their  grave : 
Look  up  !  a  loftier  destiny  behold, 

For  to  thy  coast  the  fair-hair'd  Saxon  steers, 
.Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  the  lore  of  bards  and  seers. 

IV. 

Behold  a  sail !  another,  and  another  ! 

Like  living  things  on  the  broad  river's  breast ; 
What  were  thy  secret  thoughts,  oh  red-brow' d  brother, 

As  toward  the  shore   those  white-winged  wanderers 

press'd? 
But  lo !  emerging  from  her  forest  zone, 


*  To  those  not  familiar  with  the  appearance  of  the  Indian  corn,  on  whose  cultivation 
the  aborigines  of  America  relied  as  a  principal  article  of  subsistence,  it  may  be  well  to  say 
that  a  silky  fibre,  sometimes  compared  to  a  tassel,  is  protruded  from  the  extremity  of  the 
sheath  which  envelops  the  golden  ear  or  sheaf  of  that  stately  and  beautiful  vegetable. 


POCAHONTAS.  183 


The  bow  and  quiver  o'er  her  shoulder  thrown, 

With  nodding  plumes  her  raven  tresses  dress'd, 
Of  queenly  step,  and  form  erect  and  bold, 
Yet  mute  with  wondering  awe,  the  New  World  meets  the  Old. 

v. 

Holl  on,  majestic  flood,  in  power  and  pride, 
Which  like  a  sea  doth  swell  old  ocean's  sway; 

With  hasting  keel,  thy  pale-faced  sponsors  glide 
To  keep  the  pageant  of  thy  christening  day : 

They  bless  thy  wave,  they  bid  thee  leave  unsung 

The  uncouth  baptism  of  a  barbarous  tongue, 
And  take  his  name — the  Stuart's — first  to  lay 

The  Scottish  thistle  on  the  lion's  mane, 
Of  all  old  Albion's  kings,  most  versatile  and  vain. 

VI. 

Spring  robes  the  vales.*     With  what  a  flood  of  light 
She  holds  her  revels  in  this  sunny  clime ! 

The  flower-sown  turf  like  bossy  velvet  bright, 
The  blossom'c.  trees  exulting  in  their  prime, 


*  The  ships  which  bore  the  Virginian  colonists — the  founders  of  our  nation — entered 
the  Chesapeake  April  26,  1607;  and  on  the  13th  of  May,  five  months  from  the  time  of 
setting  sail  from  England,  which  was  December  19th,  1606,  a  permanent  embarkation  was 
effected  at  Jamestown,  fifty  miles  up  that  noble  river,  to  which  the  name  of  James  was 
given,  in  honour  of  the  reigning  monarch. 


184  POCAHONTAS. 


The  leaping  streamlets  in  their  joyous  play, 
The  birds  that  frolic  mid  the  diamond  spray, 

Or  heavenward  soar,  with  minstrelsy  sublime : 
What  wild  enchantment  spreads  a  fairy  wing, 
As  from  their  prisoning  ships  the  enfranchised  strangers 
spring. 

VII. 

Their  tents  are  pitch' d,  their  spades  have  broke  the  soil, 
The  strong  oak  thunders  as  it  topples  down, 

Their  lily-handed  youths  essay  the  toil,* 

That  from  the  forest  rends  its  ancient  crown. 

Where  are  your  splendid  halls,  which  ladies  tread, 

Your  lordly  boards  with  every  luxury  spread. 
Virginian  sires — ye  men  of  old  renown  ? 

Though  few  and  faint,  your  ever-living  chain 
Holds  in  its  grasp  two  worlds,  across  the  surging  main. 

VIII. 

Yet  who  can  t3ll  what  fearful  pangs  of  wo 

Those  veary-hearted  colonists  awai';, 
When  to  its  home  the  parting  ship  must  go, 

And  leave  them  in  their  exile,  desolate  ? 


•*  "  The  axe  frequently  blistered  their  tender  fingers,  so  that  many  times  every  third 
'blow  had  a  loud  oath  to  drown  its  echo."— Hillard's  Life  of  Chptain  Smith. 


POCAHONTAS.  185 


Ah,  who  can  paint  the  peril  and  the  pain, 
The  failing  harvest  and  the  famish' d  train, 

The  wily  foe  with  ill-dissembled  hate, 
The  sickness  of  the  heart,  the  wan  despair, 
Pining  for  one  fresh  draught  of  its  dear  native  air  ? 

IX. 

Still,  mid  their  cares,  a  hallow'd  dome  they  rear'd, 

To  nurse  devotion's  consecrated  flame ; 
And  there  a  wondering  world  of  forests  heard, 

First  borne  in  solemn  chant,  Jehovah's  name ; 
First  temple  to  his  service,  refuge  dear 
From  strong  affliction  and  the  alien's  tear, 

How  swell' d  the  sacred  song  in  glad  acclaim: 
"England,  sweet  mother!"*  many  a  fervent  pray  or 
There  pour'd  its  praise  to  heaven  for  all  thy  love  and  caie, 


And  they  who  'neath  the  vaulted  roof  had  bow'd 
Of  some  proud  minster  of  tli3  olden  time, 

Or  where  the  vast  cathedral  tcwaris  the  cloud 
Rear'd  its  dark  pile  in  symmetry  sublime, 

While  through  the  storied  pane  the  sunbeam  play'd, 

*  "Lord,  bless  England,  our  sweet  native  country,"  was  the  morning  and  evening 
prayer  in  the  church  at  Jamestown,  the  first  church  erected  in  our  Western  world. 


186  POCAHONTAS. 


Tinting  the  pavement  with  a  glorious  shade, 

Now  breathed  from  humblest  fane  their  ancient  chime 
And  learn' d  they  not,  His  presence  sure  might  dwell 
With  every  seeking  c-oul,  though  bow'd  in  lowliest  cell? 

XI. 

Yet  not  quite  unadorn'd,  their  house  of  prayer: 
The  fragrant  offspring  of  the  genial  morn 

They  duly  brought;*  and  fondly  offer'd  there 
The  bud  that  trembles  ere  the  rose  is  born, 

The  blue  clematis  and  the  jasmine  pale, 

The  scarlet  woodbine  waving  in  the  gale, 
The  rhododendron,  and  the  snowy  thorn, 

The  rich  magnolia,  with  its  foliage  fair, 
High-priestess  of  the  Sowers,  whose  censer  fills  the  air. 

XII. 

Might  not  such  incense  please  thee,  Lord  of  love  ? 

Thou,  who  with  bounteous  hand  dost  deign  to  show 
Some  foretaste  of  t'iy  Paradise  above, 

To  cheer  the  wa;  -worn  pilgrim  here  below  ? 
Bidd'st  thou  mid  parching  sands  the  floweret  meek 
Strike  its  frail  root  and  raise  its  tinted  cheek, 


*  "At  the  beginning  of  each  day  they  assembled  in  the  little  church,  which  was  kept 
neatly  trimmed  with  the  wild  flowers  of  the  country." — Bancroft,  vol.  i.  p.  141. 


POCAHONTAS.  187 


And  the  slight  pine  defy  the  arctic  snow, 
That  e'en  the  skeptic's  frozen  eye  may  see 
On  Nature's  beauteous  page  what  lines  she  writes  of  Thee,? 

XIII. 

What  groups,  at  Sabbath  morn,  were  hither  led ! 

Dejected  men  with  disappointed  frown ; 
Spoil'd  youths,*  the  parents'  darling  and  their  dread, 

From  castles  in  the  air  hurl'd  ruthless  down ; 
The  sea-bronzed  mariner,  the  warrior  brave, 
The  keen  gold-gatherer,  grasping  as  the  grave ; 

Oft,  mid  these  mouldering  walls,  which  nettles  crown, 
Stern  breasts  have  lock'd  their  purpose  and  been  still, 
And  contrite  spirits  knelt,  to  learn  their  Maker's  will. 

XIV. 

Here,  in  his  surplice  white,  the  pastor  stood,  f 
A  holy  man,  of  countenance  serene. 


*  "  A  great  part  of  the  new  company  who  came  out  in  1609,"  says  the  historian  Stith, 
"  consisted  of  unruly  sparks,  packed  off  by  their  friends  to  escape  worse  destinies  at  home. 
The  rest  were  chiefly  made  up  of  poor  gentlemen,  broken  tradesmen,  footmen,  and  such 
others  as  were  fitter  to  spoil  and  ruin  a  commonwealth  than  to  help  to  raise  and  maintain 
one.  '  When  you  send  again,'  Captain  Smith  was  constrained  to  write  to  the  Corporation 
in  London,  '  I  entreat  you,  rather  send  but  thirty  carpenters,  husbandmen,  gardeners,  fish 
ermen,  blacksmiths,  masons,  and  diggers-up  of  trees'  roots,  than  a  thousand  of  such  as  we 
have.' " 

f  "The  morning-star  of  the  church  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hunt,  sent  out  by  the  London 


188  POCAHONTAS. 


Who,  mid  the  quaking  earth  or  fiery  flood 

Unmoved,  in  truth's  own  panoply,  had  been 
A  fair  example  of  his  own  pure  creed; 
Patient  of  error,  pitiful  to  need, 

Persuasive  wisdom  in  his  thoughtful  mien, 
And  in  that  Teacher's  heavenly  meekness  bless'd, 
Who  laved  his  followers'  feet,  with  towel-girded  vest. 

xv. 

Music  upon  the  breeze  !  the  savage  stays 

His  flying  arrow  as  the  strain  goes  by ; 
He  starts  !  he  listens  !  lost  in  deep  amaze, 

Breath  half-suppress'd,  and  lightning  in  his  eye 
Have  the  clouds  spoken?     Do  the  spirits  rise 
From  his  dead  fathers'  graves,  with  wildering  melodies  ? 

Oft  did  he  muse,  'neath  midnight's  solemn  sky, 
On  those  deep  tones,  which,  rising  o'er  the  sod, 
Bore  forth,  from  hill  to  hill,  the  white  man's  hymn  to  God. 


company  in  1606,  among  the  leaders  of  the  infant  colony.  It  was  he  who  administered  the 
sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  for  the  first  time  in  Virginia  at  Jamestown,  the  first  per 
manent  habitation  of  the  English  in  America,  and  the  site  of  the  first  Christian  temple. 
Ho  was  a  man  of  a  truly  humble,  meek,  and  peaceful  spirit,  and  it  is  impossible  now  to 
estimate  the  value  of  the  beneficial  influence  he  exercised  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  colony. 
His  kind  offices  as  peacemaker  were  frequently  interposed  to  harmonize  differences  which 
would  have  been  fatal  to  the  enterprise ;  and  his  example  of  suffering  affliction,  and  of  pa 
tience  in  sickness,  in  poverty,  in  peril,  cheered  his  drooping  companions,  inspiring  them 
with  such  fortitude,  and  stimulating  them  to  such  efforts,  as,  with  the  blessing  of  Provi- 
clence.  enabled  them  to  maintain  their  difficult  positions."— Kev.  Philip  Slaughter. 


POCAHONTAS.  189 


XVI. 
News  of  the  strangers  stirr'd  Powhatan's  dreams. 

The  mighty  monarch  of  the  tribes  that  roam 
A  thousand  forests,*  and  on  countless  streams 

Urge  the  swift  bark  and  dare  the  cataract's  foam ; 
The  haughtiest  chieftains  in  his  presence  stood 
Tame  as  a  child,  and  from  the  field  of  blood 

His  war-cry  thrill' d  with  fear  the  foeman's  home: 
His  nod  was  death,  his  frown  was  fix'd  as  fate, 
Unchangeable  his  love,  invincible  his  hate. 

XVII. 

A  forest-child,  amid  the  flowers  at  playlf 
Her  raven  locks  in  strange  profusion  flowing ; 

A  sweet,  wild  girl,  with  eye  of  earnest  ray, 
And  olive  cheek,  at  each  emotion  glowing ; 

Yet,  whether  in  her  gladsome  frolic  leaping, 

Or  'neath  the  greenwood  shade  unconscious  sleeping, 
Or  with  light  oar  her  fairy  pinnace  rowing, 


*  Powhatan,  the  king  of  the  country  where  the  founders  of  Virginia  first  chose  their 
residence,  was  said  to  hold  dominion  over  thirty  nations  or  tribes  who  inhabited  that 
region ;  and  being  possessed  both  of  arbitrary  power  and  much  native  talent,  his  enmity 
was  dreaded,  and  pains  taken  by  the  colonists  to  conciliate  his  friendship. 

f  "  Pocahontas,  the  daughter  of  Powhatan,  a  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age,  who,  not 
only  for  feature,  countenance,  and  expression,  much  exceeded  any  of  the  rest  of  her  people, 
but  for  wit  and  spirit  was  the  only  nonpareil  of  the  country." — Captain  John  Smith. 


190  POCAHONTAS. 


Still,  like  the  eaglet  on  its  new-fledged  wing, 
Her  spirit-glance  bespoke  the  daughter  of  a  king. 

XVIII. 

But  he,  that  wily  monarch,  stern  and  old, 

Mid  his  grim  chiefs,  with  barbarous  trappings  bright, 

That  morn  a  court  of  savage  state  did  hold. 

The  sentenced  captive  see, — his  brow  how  white  ! 

Stretch' d  on  the  turf  his  manly  form  lies  low, 

The  war-club  poises  for  its  fatal  blow, 

The  death-mist  swims  before  his  darken'd  sight : 

Forth  springs  the  child,  in  tearful  pity  bold, 
Her  head  on  his  reclines,  her  arms  his  neck  enfold. 

XIX. 

"  The  child  !  what  madness  fires  her  ?     Hence !     Depart ! 

Fly,  daughter,  fly  !  before  the  death-stroke  rings  : 
Divide  her,  warriors,  from  that  English  heart." 

In  vain  !  for  with  convulsive  grasp  she  clings  : 
She  claims  a  pardon  from  her  frowning  sire ; 
Her  pleading  tones  subdue  his  gather'd  ire;* 

And  so,  uplifting  high  his  feathery  dart, 


*  "Live!  live!"  said  the  softened  monarch,  "and  make  hatchets  for  me,  and  necklaces 
for  Pocahontas." 


PCCAHONTAS.  191 


That  doting  father  gave  the  child  her  will, 
And  bade  the  victim  live,  and  be  his  servant  still. 

xx. 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  hast  done,  thou  dark-hair'd  child? 

What  great  events  on  thy  compassion  hung  ? 
What  prowess  lurks  beneath  yon  aspect  mild, 

And  in  the  accents  of  that  foreign  tongue  ? 
As  little  knew  the  princess  who  descried 
A  floating  speck  on  Egypt's  turbid  tide, 

A  bulrush-ark  the  matted  reeds  among, 
And,  yielding  to  an  infant's  tearful  smile, 
Drew  forth  Jehovah's  seer  from  the  devouring  Nile. 

XXI. 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  battle  tried 
By  Turkish  sabre  and  by  Moorish  spear ; 

Mid  Afric's  sands,  or  Russian  forests  wide, 
Romantic,  bold,  chivalrous,  and  sincere, 

Keen-eyed,  clear-minded,  and  of  purpose  pure. 

Dauntless  to  rule,  or  patient  to  endure, 

Was  he*  whom  thou  hast  rescued  with  a  tear : 


*  The  extraordinary  features  in  the  character  of  Captain  John  Smith,  and  the  strange 
incidents  which  made  almost  the  whole  of  his  life  a  romance,  are  exhibited  by  many  histo 
rians.  Hillard,  in  his  biography  of  him,  says,  "We  see  him  performing  at  the  same  time 


192  POCAHONTAS. 


Thou  wert  the  saviour  of  the  Saxon  vine, 
And  for  this  deed  alone,  our  praise  and  love  are  thine. 

XXII. 

Not  yet  for  this  alone,  shall  history's  scroll 
Embalm  thine  image  with  a  grateful  tear ; 

For  when  the  grasp  of  famine  tried  the  soul, 

When  strength  decay 'd,  and  dark  despair  was  near, 

Who  led  her  train  of  playmates,  day  by  day, 

O'er  rock,  and  stream,  and  wild,  a  weary  way, 
Their  baskets  teeming  with  the  golden  ear  ?* 

Whose  generous  hand  vouchsafed  its  tireless  aid 
To  guard  a  nation's  germ  ?     Thine,  thine,  heroic  maid  ! 

XXIII. 

On  sped  the  tardy  seasons,  and  the  hate 

Of  the  pale  strangers  wrung  the  Indian  breast. 


the  offices  of  a  provident  governor,  a  valiant  soldier,  an  industrious  labourer,  capable  alike 
of  commanding  and  of  executing.  He  seemed  to  court  the  dangers  from  which  other  men 
shrank,  or  which  they  encountered  only  from  a  sense  of  duty.  As  the  storm  darkens 
around  him,  his  spirit  grows  more  bright  and  serene.  That  which  appals  and  disheartens 
others  only  animates  him.  He  had  a  soul  of  fire,  encased  in  a  frame  of  adamant.  Thu8 
was  he  enabled  to  endure  and  accomplish  all  the  promptings  of  his  adventurous  spirit." 
"  He  WAS  the  father  of  Virginia,"  says  Bancroft  in  his  history,  "  the  true  leader  who  first 
planted  the  Saxon  vine  in  the  United  States." 

*  When  the  colony  was  in  danger  of  utter  extinction  from  the  want  of  food,  her  zeal 
and  benevolence  never  slumbered.  Accompanied  by  her  companions,  the  child  Pocahontas 
came  every  few  days  to  the  fort  with  baskets  of  corn  for  the  starving  garrison.  Smith,  in 
his  letter  to  Queen  Anne,  writes,  "She,  next  under  God,  was  the  instrument  to  preserve 


POCAHONTAS. 


Their  hoary  prophet  breathed  the  ban  of  fate : 

"Hence  with  the  thunderers  !     Hide  their  race,  un- 

bless'd, 

Deep  'neath  the  soil  they  falsely  call  their  own ; 
For  from  our  fathers'  graves  a  hollow  moan, 

Like  the  lash'd  surge,  bereaves  my  soul  of  rest. 
'They  come  !  they  come  !'  it  cries.     <  Ye  once  were  brave: 
Will  ye  resign  the  world  that  the  Great  Spirit  gave  ?" 

XXTV. 

Yet  'neath  the  settled  countenance  of  guile 

They  veil'd  their  vengeful  purpose,  dark  and  dire, 

And  wore  the  semblance  of  a  quiet  smile, 
To  lull  the  victim  of  their  deadly  ire : 

But  ye,  who  hold  of  history's  scroll  the  pen, 

Blame  not  too  much  those  erring,  red-brow'd  men, 
Though  nursed  in  wiles.     Fear  is  the  white-lipp'd  sire 

Of  subterfuge  and  treachery.     'Twere  in  vain 
To  bid  the  soul  be  true,  that  writhes  beneath  his  chain. 

XXV. 

Night,  moonless  night !     The  forest  hath  no  sound 
But  the  low  shiver  of  its  dripping  leaves, 


this  colony  from  death,  famine,  and  utter  confusion,  which,  if  in  those  times  had  once  been 
dissolved,  Virginia  might  have  lain  as  it  was  at  our  first  arrival  unto  this  day." 


I  <»4  POCAHONTAS. 


Save  here  and  there,  amid  its  depths  profound, 
The  sullen  sigh  the  prowling  panther  heaves ; 

Save  the  fierce  growling  of  the  cubless  bear, 

Or  tramp  of  gaunt  wolf  rushing  from  his  lair, 

Where  its  slow  coil  the  poisonous  serpent  weaves : 

Who  dares  the  dangerous  path  at  hour  so  wild, 
With  fleet  and^fawnlike  step  ?     Powhatan's  fearless  child  ! 

XXVI. 

"  Up,  up — away  !     I  heard  the  words  of  power, 
Those  secret  vows  that  seal  a  nation's  doom, 
Bid  the  red  flame  burst  forth  at  midnight  hour, 

And  make  the  unconscious  slumberer's  bed  his  tomb ; 
Spare  not  the  babe — the  rose-leaf  of  a  day — 
But  shred  the  sapling,  like  the  oak,  away. 

I  heard  the  curse  !     My  soul  is  sick  with  gloom : 
Wake,  chieftains,  wake  !  avert  the  hour  of  dread  !" 
And  with  that  warning  voice  the  guardian-angel  fled.* 

XXVII. 

'On  sped  the  seasons,  and  the  forest-child 
Was  rounded  to  the  symmetry  of  youth ; 

*  "  Notwithstanding,  the  eternal,  all-seeing  God  did  prevent  the  plot  of  Powhatan,  and 
by  a  strange  means.  For  Pocahoutas,  his  dearest  jewel  and  daughter,  came  through  the 
irksc  me  woods  in  -that  dark  night,  and  told  us  that  great  cheer  might  be  sent  us  by-and-by, 
but  that  the  king,  and  all  the  power  he  could  make,  would  afterward  come  and  kill  us  all. 


POCAHONTAS. 


195 


"While  o'er  her  features  stole,  serenely  mild, 
The  trembling  sanctity  of  woman's  truth, 

Her  modesty  and  simpleness  and  grace : 

Yet  those  who  deeper  scan  the  human  face, 
Amid  the  trial-hour  of  fear  or  ruth, 

Might  clearly  read,  upon  its  heaven-writ  scroll, 
That  high  and  firm  resolve  which  nerved  the  Roman  soul. 

XXVIII. 

The  simple  sports  that  charm' d  her  childhood's  way, 
Her  greenwood  gambols  mid  the  matted  vines, 

The  curious  glance  of  wild  and  searching  ray, 
Where  innocence  with  ignorance  combines, 

Were  changed  for  deeper  thought's  persuasive  air, 

Or  that  high  port  a  princess  well  might  wear. 
So  fades  the  doubtful  star  when  morning  shines ; 

So  melts  the  young  dawn  at  the  enkindling  ray, 
And  on  the  crimson  cloud  casts  off  its  mantle  gray. 


XXIX. 

On  sped  the  tardy  seasons.     Need  I  say 

What  still  the  indignant  lyre  declines  to  tell  ? 

Therefore,  if  we  would  live,  she  wished  us  presently  to  be  gone.  Such  things  as  she  de 
lighted  in  we  would  have  given  her;  but,  with  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  she  said  she 
durst  not  be  seen  to  have  them;  for,  if  Powhatan  should  know  it,  she  were  but  dead.  And 
BO  she  ran  away  by  herself,  as  she  came."— Captain  Smith. 


196 


POCAHONTAS. 


•  How,  by  rude  hands,  the  maiden,  borne  away, 

Was  forced  amid  the  invaders'  homes  to  dwell  ? 
Yet  no  harsh  bonds  the  guiltless  prisoner  wore, 
No  sharp  constraint  her  gentle  spirit  bore, 

Held  as  a  hostage  in  the  stranger's  cell;* 
So,  to  her  wayward  fate  submissive  still, 
She  meekly  bow'd  her  heart  to  learn  a  Saviour's  will. 

xxx. 

And  holy  was  the  voice  that  taught  her  ear 
How  for  our  sins  the  Lord  of  life  was  slain ; 

While  o'er  the  listener's  bosom  flow'd  the  tear 
Of  wondering  gratitude,  like  spring-tide  rain. 

New  joys  burst  forth,  and  high  resolves  were  born 

To  choose  the  narrow  path  that  worldlings  scorn, 
And  walk  therein.     Oh,  happy  who  shall  gain 

From  the  brief  cloud  that  in  his  path  may  lie 
A  heritage  sublime,  a  mansion  in  the  sky. 

XXXI. 

In  graceful  youth,  within  the  house  of  prayer, 
Who  by  the  sacred  font  so  humbly  kneels, 


*  The  object  of  the  capture  and  detention  of  the  princess  seems  to  have  been  to  brinj 
her  father  to  such  terms  as  the  colonists  desired,  or  to  extort  from  him  a  large  ransom 
both  of  which  designs  were  frustrated. 


POCAHONTAS.  197 


And  with  a  tremulous  yet  earnest  air, 

The  deathless  vow  of  Christian  fealty  seals  ? 
The  Triune  Name  is  breathed  with  hallo w'd  power, 
The  dew  baptismal  bathes  the  forest-flower, 

And,  lo  !  her  chasten'd  smile  that  hope  reveals 
Which  nerved  the  weary  dove  o'er  floods  unbless'd, 
The  olive-leaf  to  pluck,  and  gain  the  ark  of  rest. 

XXXII. 

Pour  forth  your  incense ;  fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers, 
Wave  your  fresh  leaflets,  and  with  beauty  glow ; 

And  wake  the  anthem  in  your  choral  bowers, 

Birds,  whose  warm  hearts  with  living  praise  o'erflow; 

For  she  who  loved  your  ever-varied  dyes, 

Mingling  her  sweet  tones  with  your  symphonies, 
Seeks  higher  bliss  than  charms  like  yours  bestow — 

A  home  unchangeable — an  angel's  wing — 
Where  is  no  fading  flower,  nor  lute  with  jarring  string. 

XXXIII. 

Another  change.     The  captive's  lot  grew  fair : 

• 

A  soft  illusion  with  her  reveries  blent, 
New  charms  dispell'd  her  solitary  care, 

And   hope's   fresh   dew-drops   gleam'd   where'er    she 
went ; 


198  POCAHONTAS. 


Earth  seem'd  to  glow  with  Eden's  purple  light, 
The  fleeting  days  glanced  by  on  pinions  bright, 

For  every  hour  a  rainbow  lustre  lent; 

While,  with  his  tones  of  music  in  her  ear, 

Love's  eloquence  inspired  the  graceful  cavalier. 

xxxiv. 

Yet  love  to  her  pure  breast  was  but  a  name 
For  kindling  knowledge,  and  for  taste  refined; 

A  guiding  lamp,  whose  bright,  mysterious  flame 
Led  on  to  loftier  heights  the  aspiring  mind. 

Hence  flow'd  the  idiom  of  a  foreign  tongue 

All  smoothly  o'er  her  lip ;  old  history  flung 
Its  annal  wide,  like  banner  on  the  wind, 

And  o'er  the  storied  page,  with  rapture  wild, 
A  new  existence  dawn'd  on  nature's  fervent  child. 

XXXV. 

A  throng  is  gathering;  for  the  hallow'd  dome 
At  evening-tide  is  rich  with  sparkling  light, 

And  from  its  verdant  bound  each  rural  home 

Sends  forth  its  blossom'd  gifts,  profusely  bright; 

While  here  and  there,  amid  the  clustering  flowers, 

Some  stately  chief  or  painted  warrior  towers, 
Hail'd  as  a  brother  mid  the  festal  rite: 


POCAHONTAS.  199 


Peace  waves  her  garland  o'er  the  favour 'd  place 
Where  weds  the  new-born  West  with  Europe's  lordly  race.* 

% 

XXXVI. 

A  group  before  the  altar.     Breathe  thy  vow, 
Loving  and  stainless  one,  without  a  fear ;' 

For  he  who  wins  thee  to  his  bosom  now, 
Gem  of  the  wild,  unparalleled  and  dear, 

Will  guard  thee  ever,  as  his  treasure  rare, 

With  changeless  tenderness  and  constant  care ; 
How  speaks  his  noble  brow  a  soul  sincere, 

While  the  old  white-hair'd  king,  with  eye  of  pride, 
Gives  to  his  ardent  hand  the  timid,  trusting  bride. 

XXXVII. 

Not  with  more  heartfelt  joy  the  warlike  bands 
Of  Albion,  spent  with  long  disastrous  fray, 

Beheld  young  Tudor  cleanse  his  blood-stain'd  hands, 
And  lead  the  blooming  heir  of  York  away, 

'Neath  the  sweet  music  of  the  marriage  bells. 

Then  on  those  tented  hills  and  ravaged  dells 
The  War  of  Roses  died :  no  more  the  ray 

*  The  marriage  of  Mr.  Rolfe  with  Pocahontas  took  place  in  the  church  at  Jamestown 
in  the  month  of  April,  1613,  and  gave  great  delight  to  Powhatan  and  his  chieftains,  who 
were  present  at  the  ceremony,  and  also  to  the  English,  and  proved  a  bond  of  peace  and 
a  aity  between  them  as  lasting  as  the  life  of  the  Indian  king. 


200  POCAHONTAS. 


Of  white  or  red,  the  fires  of  hate  illumed, 
But  froni  their  blended  roots  the  rose  of  Sharon  bloom'd.* 

XXXVIII. 

Young  wife,  how  beautiful  the  months  swept  by. 

Within  thy  bower  methinks  I  view  thee  still : 
The  meek  observance  of  thy  lifted  eye 

Bent  on  thy  lord,  and  prompt  to  do  his  will; 
The  care  for  him,  the  happiness  to  see 
His  soul's  full  confidence  repose  in  thee, 

The  sacrifice  of  self,  the  ready  skill 
In  duty's  path,  the  love  without  alloy, 
These  gave  each  circling  year  a  brighter  crown  of  joy. 

XXXIX. 

Out  on  the  waters  !     On  the  deep,  deep  sea  ! 

Out,  out  upon  the  waters  !  Surging  foam, 
Swell'd  by  the  winds,  rolls  round  her  wild  and  free, 

And  memory  wanders  to  her  distant  home, 
To  fragrant  gales,  the  blossom' d  boughs  that  stir, 


*  The  rose  striped  with  white  and  red,  sometimes  called  the  rose  of  Sharon,  has  been 
said  in  some  ancient  legend,  to  have  teen  first  seen  in  England  after  the  marriage  of  Henry 
VII.  to  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Edward  IV.,  when  the  civil  war  which  had  so  long  raged 
with  bitterness  was  terminated,  and  the  Red  Rose  of  Lancaster  and  the  White  Rose  of 
York  ceased  to  be  the  unnatural  symbols  of  bloodshed. 


POCAHONTAS.  201 


To  the  sad  sire  who  fondly  dreams  of  her ; 

But  kindling  smiles  recall  the  thoughts  that  roam, 
For  at  her  side  a  bright-hair 'd  nursling  plays, 
While  bends  her  bosom's  lord  with  fond,  delighted  gaze. 

XL. 

And  this  is  woman's  world.     It  matters  not 
Though  in  the  trackless  wilderness  she  dwell, 

Or  on  the  cliff  where  hangs  the  Switzer's  cot, 
Or  in  the  subterranean  Greenland  cell : 

Her  world  is  in  the  heart.     Rude  storms  may  rise, 

And  dark  eclipse  involve  ambition's  skies, 

But  dear  affection's  flame  burns  pure  and  well, 

And  therefore  'tis,  with  such  a  placid  eye, 
She  soothes  her  loved  ones'  pangs,  or  lays  her  down  to  die. 

XLI. 

Lo !  Albion's  cliffs,  in  glorious  light  that  shine, 
"Welcome  the  princess  of  the  infant  West. 

'Twas  nobly  done,  thou  queen  of  Stuart's  line,* 
To  soothe  the  tremors  of  that  stranger's  breast ; 


*  Oil  the  12th  of  June,  1616,  Mr.  Rolfe,  -with  his  Indian  wife,  who,  after  her  baptism, 
was  known  by  the  name  of  the  Lady  Rebecca,  arrived  in  England.  Her  merits  had  pre 
ceded  her,  and  secured  for  her  the  attentions"  and  hospitality  of  persons  of  rank  and 
influence.  The  queen  of  James  I.,  the  reigning  monarch,  treated  her  with  affability  and 
respect.  "It  pleased  both  the  king's  and  queen's  majesties,"  writes  Captain  Smith, 


202  POCAHONTAS. 


And  when,  upon  thy  ladies  richly  dight, 
She,  through  a  flood  of  ebon  tresses  bright, 

Uplifts  the  glances  of  a  timid  guest, 
What  sees  she  there  ?     The  greeting  smiles  that  brought 
O'er  her  own  lofty  brow  its  native  hues  of  thought. 

XLII. 

But  what  delighted  awe  her  accents  breathed, 
The  gorgeous  domes  of  ancient  days  to  trace, 

The  castellated  towers,  with  ivy  wreathed, 
The  proud  mementoes  of  a  buried  race ; 

Or  'neath  some  mighty  minster's  solemn  pile, 

Dim  arch,  and  fretted  roof,  and  long-drawn  aisle, 
How  rush'd  the  heart's  blood  wildly  to  her  face, 

When,  from  the  living  organ's  thunder-chime, 
The  full  Te  Deum  burst  in  melody  sublime. 

XLIII. 

Yet,  mid  the  magic  of  those  regal  walls, 

The  glittering  train,  the  courtier's  flattering  tone, 

Or  by  her  lord,  through  fair  ancestral  halls, 
Led  on,  to  claim  their  treasures  as  her  own, 


"honourably  to  esteem  her,  accompanied  with  that  honourable  lady,  the  Lady  Delaware, 
and  that  honourable  lord  her  husband,  and  divers  other  persons  of  good  quality,  both 
publicly  and  at  the  masks  and  concerts,  to  her  great  satisfaction  and  content." 


POCAHONTAS.  203 


Stole  .back  the  scenery  of  her  solitude  : 
An  aged  father,  in  his  cabin  rude, 

Mix'd  with  her  dreams  a  melancholy  moan, 
Notching  his  simple  calendar,*  with  pain, 
And  straining  his  red  eye  to  watch  the  misty  main. 

XLIV. 

Prayer,  prayer  for  him  !  when  the  young  dawn  arose 
With  its  gray  banner,  or  red  day  declined, 

Up  went  his  name,  for  ever  blent  with  those 

Most  close  and  strong  around  her  soul  entwined. 

Husband  and  child;  and,  as  the  time  drew  near 

To  fold  him  to  her  heart  with  filial  tear, 

For  her  first  home  her  warm  affections  pined. 

That  time — it  came  not !  for  a  viewless  hand 
Was  stretch'd  to  bar  her  foot  from  her  green  childhood's  land. 

XLV. 

Sweet  sounds  of  falling  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
The  crystal  streams,  her  playmates,  far  away, 


*  The  mode  of  computation  by  cutting  notches  upon  a  stick  prevailed  among  many  of 
our  aboriginal  tribes.  One  of  the  council  of  Powhatan,  who  accompanied  Pocahontas,  was 
directed  in  this  manner  to  mark  the  number  of  the  people  he  might  meet.  He  obtained  a 
very  long  cane  on  his  landing,  and  commenced  the  task.  But  he  soon  became  weary  of 
this  manner  of  taking  the  census,  and,  on  his  return  home,  said  to  his  king,  "  Count  the 
stars  in  the  sky,  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  the  sands  on  the  seashore,  but  not  the  people  of 
England." 


204  POCAHONTAS. 


Oft,  oft  their  dulcet  music  mock'd  her  ear, 
As,  restless,  on  her  fever'd  couch  she  lay; 

Strange  visions  hover'd  round,  and  harpings  high, 

From  spirit-bands,  and  then  her  lustrous  eye 
Welcomed  the  call ;  but  earth  resumed  its  sway, 

And  all  its  sacred  ties  convulsive  twined. 
How  hard  to  spread  the  wing,  and  leave  the  loved  behind ! 

XL  VI. 

Sunset  in  England  at  the  autumn  prime ! 

Through  foliage  rare,  what  floods  of  light  were  sent ! 
The  full  and  whitening  harvest  knew  its  time, 

And  to  the  sickle  of  the  reaper  bent ; 
Forth  rode  the  winged  seeds  upon  the  gale, 
New  homes  to  find;  but  she,  with  lip  so  pale, 

Who  on  the  arm  of  her  beloved  leant, 
Breathed  words  of  tenderness,  with  smile  serene, 
Though  faint  and  full  of  toil,  the  gasp  and  groan  between. 

XLVII. 

"Oh,  dearest  friend,  Death  cometh !     He  is  here, 

Here  at  my  heart !     Air !  'air !  that  I  may  speak 
My  hoarded  love,  my  gratitude  sincere, 

To  thee  and  to  thy  people.     But  I  seek 
In  vain.     Though  most  unworthy,  yet  I  hear 


POCAHONTAS,  205 

A  call,  a  voice  too  bless'd  for  mortal  ear;" 

And  w^th  a  marble  coldness  on  her  cheek, 
And  one  long  moan,  like  breaking  harp-string  sweet, 
She  bare  the  unspoken  lore  to  her  Kedeemer's  feet. 

XLVIII. 

Gone  ?     G-one  ?    Alas  !  the  burst  of  wild  despair 
That  rent  his  bosom  who  had  loved  so  well ; 

He  had  not  yet  put  forth  his  strength  to  bear, 
So  suddenly  and  sore  the  death-shaft  fell. 

Man  hath  a  godlike  might  in  danger's  hour, 

In  the  red  battle,  or  the  tempest's  power ; 
Yet  is  he  weak  when  tides  of  anguish  swell. 

Ah,  who  can  mark  with  cold  and  tearless  eyes 
The  grief  of  stricken  man  when  his  sole  idol  dies ! 

XLIX. 

And  she  had  fled,  in  whom  his  heart's  deep  joy 
Was  garner 'd  up ;  fled,  like  the  rushing  flame, 

And  left  no  farewell  for  her  fair  young  boy. 
Lo !  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  careless  came, 

A  noble  creature,  with  his  full  dark  eye 

And  clustering  curls,  in  nature's  majesty ; 
But,  with,  a  sudden  shriek,  his  mother's  name 


206 


POCAHONTAS. 


Burst  from  his  lips,  and,  gazing  on  the  clay, 
He  stretch'd  his  eager  arms  where  the  cold  sleeper  lay 

L. 

"  Oh,  mother !  mother !"     Did  that  bitter  cry 

Send  a  shrill  echo  through  the  realm  of  death  ? 
Look  to  the  trembling  fringes  of  the  eye ; 

List  the  sharp  shudder  of  returning  breath, 
The  spirit's  sob !     They  lay  him  on  her  breast ; 
One  long,  long  kiss  on  his  bright  brow  she  press' d; 

E'en  from  heaven's  gate  of  bliss  she  lingereth, 
To  breathe  one  blessing  o'er  his  precious  head, 
And  then  her  arm  unclasps,  and  she  is  of  the  dead.* 

LI. 

The  dead !  the  sainted  dead !  why  should  we  weep 
At  the  last  change  their  settled  features  take  ? 

At  the  calm  impress  of  that  holy  sleep 

Which  care  and  sorrow  never  more  shall  break  ? 

Believe  we  not  His  word  who  rends  the  tomb, 


*  Early  in  the  year  1617,  while  preparing  to  return  to  her  native  land,  she  was  taken 
sick,  and  died  at  the  age  of  twenty- two.  She  was  buried  at  Gravesend.  Her  firmness  and 
resignation  proved  the  sincerity  of  her  piety ;  and,  as  Bancroft  eloquently  observes,  "  She 
was  saved,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  mercy,  from  beholding  the  extermination  of  the  tribes  from 
which  she  sprang,  leaving  a  spotless  name,  and  dwelling  in  memory  under  the  form  of 
perpetual  youth." 


POCAHONTAS.  207 


And  bids  the  slumberers  from  that  transient  gloom 

In  their  Redeemer's  glorious  image  wake  ? 
Approach  we  not  the  same  sepulchral  bourne 
Swift  as  the  shadow  fleets  ?     What  time  have  we  to  mourn? 

LII. 

A  little  time  thou  found' st,  0  pagan  king, 

A  little  space,  to  murmur  and  repine : 
Oh,  bear  a  few  brief  months  affliction's  sting, 

And  gaze  despondent  o'er  the  billowy  brine, 
And  then  to  the  Great  Spirit,  dimly  traced 
Through  cloud  and  tempest,  and  with  fear  embraced, 

In  doubt  and  mystery,  thy  breath  resign ; 
And  to  thy  scorn'd  and  perish'd  people  go, 
From  whose  long-trampled  dust  our  flowers  and  herbage 
grow. 

LIII. 

Like  the  fallen  leaves  those  forest-tribes  have  fled ; 

Deep  'neath  the  turf  their  rusted  weapon  lies ; 
No  more  their  harvest  lifts  its  golden  head, 

Nor  from  their  shaft  the  stricken  red-deer  flies ; 
But  from  the  far,  far  west,  where  holds,  so  hoarse, 
The  lonely  Oregon,  its  rock-strewn  course, 

While  old  Pacific's  sullen  surge  replies, 


208  POCAHONTAS. 


Are  heard  their  exiled  murmurings  deep  and  low, 
Like  one  whose  smitten  soul  departeth  full  of  wo. 

LIV. 

I  would  ye  were  not,  from  your  fathers'  soil, 
Track' d  like  the  dun  wolf,  ever  in  your  breast 

The  coal  of  vengeance  and  the  curse  of  toil ; 
I  would  we  had  not  to  your  mad  lip  prest 

The  fiery  poison-cup,  nor  on  ye  turn'd 

The  blood-tooth'd  ban-dog,  foaming,  as  he  burn'd 
To  tear  your  flesh ;  but  thrown  in  kindness  blest 

The  brother's  arm  around  ye,  as  ye  trod, 
And  led  ye,  sad  of  heart,  to  the  meek  Lamb  of  God. 

LV. 

Forgotten  race,  farewell !     Your  haunts  we  tread, 
Our  mighty  rivers  speak  your  words  of  yore, 

Our  mountains  wear  them  on  their  misty  head, 
Our  sounding  cataracts  hurl  them  to  the  shore ; 

But  on  the  lake  your  flashing  oar  is  still, 

Hush'd  is  your  hunter's  cry  on  dale  and  hill, 
Your  arrow  stays  the  eagle's  flight  no  more; 

And  ye,  like  troubled  shadows,  sink  to  rest 
In  unremember'd  tombs,  unpitied  and  unbless'd. 


POCAHONTAS.  201) 


LVI. 

The  council-fires  are  quench'd,  that  erst  so  red 
Their  midnight  volume  mid  the  groves  entwined; 

King,  stately  chief,  and  warrior-host  are  dead, 
Nor  remnant  nor  memorial  left  behind : 

But  thou,  0  forest-princess,  true  of  heart, 

When  o'er  our  fathers  waved  destruction's  dart, 
Shalt  in  their  children's  loving  hearts  be  shrined ; 

Pure,  lonely  star,  o'er  dark  oblivion's  wave, 
It  is  not  meet  thy  name  should  moulder  in  the  grave. 

14 


210  THE   LITTLE   FOOTSTEP. 


THE  LITTLE  FOOTSTEP 

I  SAW  a  tiny  footstep  in  the  snow, 
Beside  a  cottage  door. 

So  slight  it  was, 

And  fairy-like,  methought  it  scarce  belong'd 
To  our  terrestrial  race.     With  zigzag  course, 
On  the  white  element  it  left  a  trace, 
While  here  and  there,  the  likeness  of  a  hand, 
Each  baby-finger  like  a  spider's  claw 
Outspread  to  clutch,  reveal'd  some  morsel  cold, 
Snatch'd,  and.  by  stealth  to  the  red  lip  conveyed. 
— Didst  think  'twas  sugar,  child  ?  and  this  round  world 
All  one  huge,  frosted  cake  ? 

Others  have  made 
Mistakes  as  strange,  e'en  though  their  locks  were  gray. 

So  musing  on  I  went,  until  the  track 
Of  that  small  creature  was  abruptly  stay'd, 
While  trampling  parallel,  broad,  heavy  feet, 


THE    LITTLE   FOOTSTEP.  211 

In  backward  lines,  their  giant  impress  made, 
Quite  to  the  cottage-gate. 

Some  pirate,  sure, 

Had  captured  the  poor  traveller,  in  the  bud 
And  blossom  of  its  joyous  enterprise, 
And,  nolens  volens,  bore  it  home  again. 
Moreover,  in  the  note-book  of  the  snow 
I  read  this  capture  was  against  its  will, 
For  at  the  juncture  of  those  differing  feet, 
M.arks  of  a  passion-struggle  plainly  told 
A  differing  purpose ;  and  I  seem'd  to  hear 
The  angry  shriek  of  the  indignant  child 
Intent  on  freedom,  and  the  smother 'd  wail 
With  which,  at  length,  it  yielded  to  the  force 
Of  nurse  or  servant, — and  to  nursery  drear, 
Perchance  to  darken'd  closet,  for  its  fault 
Was  borne  appall'd. 

So,  o'er  the  race  of  time, 
Young  fancy  starts,  unbridled,  unarray'd, 
Undisciplined,  until  stern  Reason's  grasp 
Arrests  the  fugitive.     Anon,  the  cares, 
And  toils,  and  tyrannies  of  time,  dispel 
Its  frost-work  fabrics.     So,  with  pinion' d  wing 
And  fallen  crest,  it  yieldeth  to  their  will, 
Bearing  "subjugum"  on  its  tattoo'd  brow 
Like  some  New  Zealand  chief. 


212  THE    LITTLE   FOOTSTEP. 

A  lesson  strong, 

Yet  needful,  thou  hast  in  thy  memory  stored 
This  day,  sad  infant. 

Liberty's  excess 

Is  pruned  within  thee,  and  henceforth  must  know 
Curb  and  restraint,  till,  like  La  Plata's  steed, 
It  heed  the  lasso  well. 

Thus,  may  we  gain, 

We,  older  scholars  in  life's  school  austere, 
From  all  its  discipline  a  will  subdued, 
And,  when  its  hour-glass  closes,  find  at  last 
A  Father's  house,  like  thee. 


SCOTLAND'S   FAMINE  21*3 


SCOTLAND'S  FAMINE. 

THERE'S  weeping  mid  the  lonely  sea 

Where  the  rude  Hebrids  lie, 
And  where  the  misty  Highlands  point 
t  Their  foreheads  to  the  sky. 

The  oats  were  blighted  on  the  stalk. 

The  corn  before  its  bloom. 
And  many  a  hand  that  held  the  plough 

Is  pulseless  in  the  tomb. 

There  is  no  playing  in  the  streets, 

The  haggard  children  move 
Like  mournful  phantoms,  mute  and  slow, 

Uncheer'd  by  hope  or  love. 

No  dog  upon  his  master  fawns, 
No  sheep  the  hillocks  throng, 

Not  e'en  the  playmate  kitten  sports 
The  sad-eyed  babes  among. 


2H  SCOTLAND'S   FAMINE. 

No  more  the  cock  his  clarion  sounds, 
Nor  brooding  wing  is  spread ; 

There  is  no  food  in  barn  or  stall, 
The  household  birds  are  dead. 

From  the  young  maiden's  hollow  cheek 
The  ruddy  blush  is  gone, 

The  peasant  like  a  statue  stands, 
And  hardens  into  stone. 

The  shuttle  sleepeth  in  the  loom, 
The  crook  upon  the  walls, 

And  from  the  languid  mother's  hand 
The  long-used  distaff  falls. 

She  hears  her  children  ask  for  bread, 
And  what  can  she  bestow  ? 

She  sees  their  uncomplaining  sire 
A  mournful  shadow  grow. 

Oh  Scotia  !     Sister  !  if  thy  woes 

Awake  no  pitying  care, 
If  long  at  banquet-board  we  sit 

Nor  heed  thy  deep  despair, — 


SCOTLAND'S   FAMINE.  215 

While  thou  art  pining  unto  death, 

Amid  thy  heather  brown, 
Wilt  not  the  Giver  of  our  joys 

Upon  our  luxuries  frown  ? 

And  blast  the  blossom  of  our  pride, 

And  ban  the  rusted  gold, 
And  turn  the  morsel  into  gall 

That  we  from  thee  withhold  ? 


216  THE   PASSING   BELL. 


THE  PASSING  BELL. 


In  ancient  times,  the  passing  bell  was  tolled  when  a  fellow-being  approached  death, 
that  Christians  might  unite  in  supplication  for  a  peaceful  passage  to  the  departing  soul. 
This  usage  was  probably  abolished  about  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  lest  it  might  tend 
to  fortify  the  Romish  custom  of  praying  for  the  dead. 


OH,  solemn  passing-bell ! 
What  said  thy  measured  knell 

In  ancient  time, 
When,  breaking  folly's  song, 
It  warn'd  a  listening  throng 

With  mournful  chime  ? 

Slowly  o'er  rock  and  dell, 
Thus  thy  deep  accents  fell, 

Thus  spake  the  toll : 
"  One  of  thine  own  frail  race 
Gaspeth  in  death's  embrace — 

Pray  for  his  soul. 


THE   PASSING   BELL.  217 


"The  strong  man's  arm  is  weak; 
See  from  pale  brow  and  cheek 

Cold  dew-drops  roll; 
How  can  he  break  away 
From  those  who  need  his  stay  ? 

Pray  for  his  soul. 

"Hark  to  a  wailing  sound ! 
A  household  gather  round 

"With  grief  and  dole ; 
The  mother  struggleth  sore, 
She  heeds  her  babe  no  more— 

Pray  for  her  soul. 

"  To  beauty's  shaded  room, 
The  spoiler's  step  of  gloom 

Hath  darkly  stole ; 
Her  lips  are  ghastly  white, 
A  film  is  o'er  her  sight — 
Pray  for  her  soul." 

Oh,  bell  that  slowly  toll'd  ! 
"Were  these  thy  words  of  old, 

Bidding  men  bow 
In  prayer  for  those  who  bear 
The  pang  they  soon  must  share  ? 

What  say'st  thou  now? 


218  THE  PASSING  BELL. 

"  One  from  his  dear  abode 
Travelleth  the  church-yard  road, 

To  his  last  bed; 
The  widow  next  the  bier 
Walketh,  with  blinding  tear — 
Toll  for  the  dead. 

"  The  pauper  layeth  down 
Gaunt  penury's  galling  crown 

Of  scorn  and  dread; 
Great  as  a  king  he  goes 
Unto  his  long  repose — 

Toll  for  the  dead. 

"From  crib  and  cradle  fair, 

• 
From  love's  unresting  care, 

A  child  hath  fled; 
Let  snow-drops  lift  their  eye 
Where  the  shorn  bud  must  lie- 
Toll  for  the  dead. 

"Low  'neath  the  coffin-lid 
An  aged  one  hath  hid 

His  hoary  head; 
On  staff,  at  sunny  door, 
Ye'll  see  him  lean  no  more — 

Toll  for  the  dead." 


THE   PASSING    BELL.  219 

Oh,  holy  passing  bell ! 
Mingling  thy  solemn  knell 

Thus  with  our  tears ; 
While,  like  the  shuttle's  flight, 
Like  the  short  summer-night, 

Fleet  our  brief  years ; 

Prompt  us  His  will  to  do, 
Bid  us  His  favour  sue, 
Warn  us  His  wrath  to  rue, 

Unto  whose  eye, 
Unto  whose  bar  of  dread, 
Judge  of  the  quick  and  dead, 
Every  hour's  silent  tread 

Bringeth  us  ni^h. 


220  THE    WESTERN    EMIGRANT. 


THE  WESTERN  EMIGRANT. 

AN  axe  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  toward  the  skies  had  tower 'd 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguiled  the  toil. 

"Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 

Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans.     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd. 
So  many  days,  on  toward  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  OWTL  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream." 

"Father,  the  brook 

That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launch'd 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round, 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 


THE   WESTERN   EMIGRANT.  221 

My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 

"What,  ho!  my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  toward  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain'd 
His  noon's  repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet  confiding  smile. 

"See,  dearest,  see, 

That  bright-wing' d  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  red-bird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 
In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone?" 

"I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 
Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 
Still  made  me  joyful,  as  I  went  to  tend 
My  snow-drops.     I  was  always  laughing  then, 
In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now, 
Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 
The  same  fresh  violets." 

Slow  night  drew  on, 

And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  emigrant 
The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 


222  THE   WESTERN   EMIGRANT. 

Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 
And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 
To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois 
Dashing  against  their  shores. 

Starting  he  spake — 

"Wife!  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear? 
'Twas  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 
Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 
Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 
Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 
Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone,  hermit  home." 

"No,  no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 
Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 
Which  mid  the  church,  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 
So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 
Dissolved  the  illusion." 

And  the  gentle  smile 

Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  sooth'd 
Her  waking  infant,  reassured  his  soul 
That  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 
And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 
Content  and  placid,  to  his  rest  he  sank ; 
But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 
Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 
Their  will  with  him. 


THE   WESTERN   EMIGRANT.  223 

Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 
Of  his  own  native  city — roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neigh'd: 
The  favorite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark ;   familiar  doors 
Flew  open;   greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 
In  friendship's  grasp ;   he  'heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten — and,  till  morning,  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


224  THE   DEAF,  DUMB,   AND   BLIND    GIRL. 


THE  DEAF,  DUMB,  AND  BLIND  GIRL  AT 
A  FESTIVAL. 

SHE  sate  beneath  the  leafy  shade 

Where  young  birds  chirp 'd  in  leafy  cell, 

Where  wild  flowers  deck'd  the  mossy  glade, 
And  tuneful  waters  murmuring  fell. 

And  smile  and  song  and  mirth  were  there, 
While  youth  and  joy  fresh  garlands  wove, 

And  white-robed  forms,  with  tresses  fair, 
Were  gliding  through  the  enchanted  grove. 

But  there  she  sat  with  drooping  head, 
By  stern  misfortune  darkly  bound, 

By  holy  light  unvisited, 

And  silent  mid  a  world  of  sound. 

Chain'd  down  to  solitary  gloom, 

No  sense  of  quick  delight  i^as  there, 

Save  when  the  blossom's  rich  perfume 
Came  floating  on  the  scented  air. 


THE   DEAF,   DUMB,    AND   BLIND    GIRL.  225 

She  rose,  and  sadly  sought  her  home 

Where  with  the  voiceless  train  she  dwelt, 

'Neath  charity's  majestic  dome, 

For  bounteous  hearts  her  sorrows  felt. 

But  while  her  mute  companions  share 
Those  joys  that  ne'er  await  the  blind, 

A  moral  night  of  deep  despair 

Descending  shrouds  her  lonely  mind. 

f 
For  not  to  her,  Creation  lends 

Or  blush  of  morn  or  beaming  moon, 
Nor  pitying  Knowledge  makes  amends 

For  step-dame  Nature's  stinted  boon. 

Yet  deem  not,  though  so  dark  her  path, 
Heaven  strew' d  no  comfort  o'er  her  lot, 

Or  in  its  bitter  cup  of  wrath 

The  healing  drop  of  balm  forgot. 

No  !  still  with  unambitious  mind 

The  needle's  patient  task  to  ply, 
At  the  full  board  her  place  to  find, 

Or  close  in  sleep  the  placid  eye; 

15 


22G 


THE    DEAF,  DUMB,   AND    BLIND    GIRL. 


With  order's  unobtrusive  charm 
Her  simple  wardrobe  to  dispose, 

To  press  of  guiding  care  the  arm, 

And  rove  where  autumn's  bounty  flows; 

With  touch  so  exquisitely  true 
That  vision  stands  astonish' d  by, 

To  recognise  with  ardor  due 

Some  friend  or  benefactor  nigh ; 

Her  hand  mid  childhood's  curls  to  place, 
From  fragrant  buds  the  breath  to  steal, 

Of  stranger-guest  the  brow  to  trace, 
Are  pleasures  left  for  her  to  feel. 

And  often  o'er  her  hour  of  thought 
Will  burst  a  laugh  of  wildest  glee, 

As  if  the  living  gems  she  caught 
On  wit's  fantastic  drapery; 


As  if,  at  length,  relenting  skies, 
In  pity  to  her  doom  severe, 

Had  bade  a  mimic  morning  rise, 
The  chaos  of  the  soul  to  cheer. 


THE   DEAF,    DUMB,    AND   BLIND   GIRL.  227 

But  wTho,  with  energy  divine, 

May  tread  that  undiscover'd  maze, 
Where  Nature  in  her  curtain' d  shrine 

The  strange  and  new-born  thought  surveys  ? 

Where  quick  Perception  shrinks  to  find 

On  eye  and  ear  the  envious  seal, 
And  wild  ideas  throng  the  mind, 

That  palsied  speech  must  ne'er  reveal ; 

Where  Instinct,  like  a  robber  bold, 

Steals  sever'd  links  from  Reason's  chain, 

And,  leaping  o'er  her  barrier  cold, 
Proclaims  the  proud  precaution  vain. 

Say,  who  shall  with  magician's  wand 

That  elemental  mass  compose, 
Where  young  affections  slumber  fond 

Like  germs  unwaked  mid  wintry  snows  ? 

Who,  in  that  undecipher'd  scroll, 

The  mystic  characters  may  see, 
Save  He  who  reads  the  secret  soul, 

And  holds  of  life  and  death  the  key  ? 


228  THE   DEAF,  DUMB,  AND   BLIND    GIRL. 

Then,  on  thy  midnight  journey  roam, 
Poor  wandering  child  of  rayless  gloom, 

And  to  thy  last  and  narrow  home, 
Drop  gently  from  this  living  tomb. 

Yes, — uninterpreted  and  drear, 
Toil  onward  with  benighted  mind, 

Still  kneel  at  prayers  thou  canst  not  hear, 
And  grope  for  truth  thou  mayst  not  find. 

No  scroll  of  friendship,  or  of  love, 

Must  breathe  soft  language  o'er  thy  heart ; 

Nor  that  blest  Book  which  guides  above, 
Its  message  to  thy  soul  impart. 

But  Thou  who  didst  on  Calvary  die, 
Flows  not  thy  mercy  wide  and  free  ? 

Thou  who  didst  rend  of  DeatJi  the  tie, 
Is  Nature  s  seal  too  strong  for  thee  ? 

And  Thou,  oh  Spirit  pure  !  whose  rest 
Is  with  the  lowly  contrite  train, 

Illume  the  temple  of  her  breast, 
And  cleanse  of  latent  ill  the  stain ; 


THE    DEAF,   DUMB,   AND   BLIND    GIRL.  229 

That  she,  whose  pilgrimage  below 

Was  night  that  never  hoped  a  morn, 
That  undeclining  day  may  know 

Which  of  eternity  is  born.  „ 

The  great  transition  who  can  tell  ? 

When  from  the  ear  its  seal  shall  part, 
Where  countless  lyres  seraphic  swell, 

And  holy  transport  thrills  the  heart ; 

When  the  chain' d  tongue,  forbid  to  pour 

The  broken  melodies  of  time, 
Shall  to  the  highest  numbers  soar 

Of  everlasting  praise  sublime : 

When  those  veil'd  orbs,  which  ne'er  might  trace 

The  features  of  their  kindred  clay, 
Shall  scan,  of  Deity,  the  face, 

And  glow  with  rapture's  deathless  ray. 


230  NO   GOD. 


NO  GOD. 

"The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no  God."— PSALM  xiy. 

"No  God !  no  God  !"     The  simplest  flower 

That  on  the  wild  is  found, 
Shrinks,  as  it  drinks  its  cup  of  dew, 

And  trembles  at  the  sound. 
"No  God!"  astonish'd  Echo  cries 

From  out  her  cavern  hoar; 
And  every  wandering  bird  that  flies 
Reproves  the  atheist  lore. 

The  solemn  forest  lifts  its  head 

The  Almighty  to  proclaim ; 
The  brooklet,  on  its  crystal  urn, 

Doth  leap  to  grave  his  name ; 
High  swells  the  deep  and  vengeful  sea 

Along  its  billowy  track,       9 
And  red  Vesuvius  opes  his  mouth 

To  hurl  the  falsehood  back. 


NO    GOD.  231 


The  palm-tre-j,  with  its  princely  cros", 

The  cocoa's  leafy  shade, 
The  bread-fruit,  bending  to  its  lord, 

In  yon  far  island  glade ; 
The  winged  seeds  that,  borno  by  windr. 

The  roving  sparrows  feed, 
The  melon  on  the  desert  sand6?, 

Confute  the  scorner'a  crood 

«  No  aod  r     With  indignation  high 

The  fervent  sun  is  stirr'd, 
And  the  pale  moon  turns  paler  still 

At  such  an  impious  word ! 
And,  from  their  burning  thrones,  the  slars 

Look  down  with  angry  eye, 
That  thus  a  worm  of  dust  should  mooTr 

Eternal  Majesty. 


232  THE   MOURNING   DAUGHTER. 


THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 

WHEELS  o'er  the  pavement  rolTd,  and  a  slight  form. 
Just  in  the  bud  of  blushing  womanhood, 
Reach'd  the  paternal  threshold.     Wrathful  night 
Muffled  the  timid  stars,  and  rain-drops  hung 
On  that  fair  creature's  rich  and  glossy  curls. 
She  stood  and  shiver'd,  but  no  mother's  hand 
Dried  those  damp  tresses,  and  with  warm  caress 
Sustain'd  the  weary  spirit.     No,  that  hand 
Was  with  the  cold,  dull  earth-worm. 

Gray  and  sad, 

The  tottering  nurse  rose  up,  and  that  old  man, 
The  soldier-servant  who  had  train' d  the  steeds 
Of  her  slain  brothers  for  the  battle-field, 
Essay'd  to  lead  her  to  the  couch  of  pain 
Where  her  sick  father  pined. 

Oft  had  he  yearn'd 

For  her  sweet  presence ;  oft,  in  midnight's  watch, 
Mused  of  his  dear  one's  smile,  till  dreams  restored 
The  dove-like  dalliance  of  her  ruby  lip 


THE  MOURNING  DAUGHTER.  233 

Breathing  his  woes  away.     Yv7Lile  distant  far, 
She,  patient  student,  bending  o'er  her  tasks, 
Toil'd  for  the  fruits  of  knowledge,  treasuring  still. 
In  the  heart's  casket,  his  approving  word 
And  the  pure  music  of  the  welcome  home, 
Rich  payment  of  her  labours. 

But  there  came 

A  summons  of  surprise,  and  on  the  w;ng3 
Of  filial  love  she  hasted.     'Twas  too  late  ; 
The  lamp  of  life  still  burn'd,  yet  'twas  too  late. 
The  mind  had  pass'd  away,  and  who  could  call 
Its  wing  from  out  the  sky  ? 

For  the  embrace 

Of  strong  idolatry,  was  but  the  glare 
Of  a  fi:;'d  vacant  eye.     Disease  had  deaU 
A  fell  assassin's  blow.     Oh  God !  the  blight 
That  fell  on  those  fresh  hopes,  when  all  in  vain 
The  passive  hand  was  grasp' d.,  and  +he  wide  halls 
Re-echo'd  "Father!  father!" 

Through  tie  shades 

Of  that  long,  silent  night,  sho  sleepless  bent ; 
Pathing  with  tireless  hand  the  unmoved  brow, 
And  the  death-pillow  smoothing,     When  fair  morn 
Came  with  its  rose-tint  up,  she  shrieking  clasp'd 
Her  hands  in  joy,  for  its  reviving  ray 
Flush' d  that  wan  brow,  as  if  with  one  brief  trace 


234  THE   MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 


Of  waken'd  intellect.  'Twas  r-eeming  all, 
Aftd  hope's  fond  vision  faded,  as  the  day 
Rode  on  in  glory. 

Evo  her  curtain  drew 

And  found  that  pale  and  beautiful  watcher  there, 
Still  unrcposing.     Rectless  on  his  couch 
Toss'd  the  sick  man.     Cold  lethargy  had  steep'd 
Its  last  dead  poppy  in  his  heart's  red  stream. 
And  agony  was  stirring  Nature  up 
To  struggle  wich  her  foe. 

"Father  in  heaven  ! 

Oh  give  him  sleep  !"  sigh'd  an  imploring  voice. 
And  then  she  ran  to  hush  the  measured  tick 
Of  the  dull  night-clock,  and  to  scare  the  owl 
That,  clinging  to  the  casement,  hoarsely  pour'd 
A  boding  note.     But  soon  from  that  lone  couch 
A  hollow  groan  announced  the  foe  ihat  strikes 
But  once. 

They  bore  the  fainting  girl  away. 
And  paler  than  that  ashen  corse,  her  face; 
Half  by  a  flood  of  eboi  tresses  hid, 
Droop'd  o'er  the  old  nurse's  shoulder.     It  was  s 
To  see  a  young  heart  breaking,  while  the  old 
Sank  down  to  rest. 

There  was  another  change. 
The  mournful  bell  toll'd  out  the  funeral  hour, 


THE    MOURNING   DAUGHTER. 


235 


And  groups  came  gathering  to  the  gate  -where  stood 

The  sable  hearse.     Friends  throng' d  with  heavy  hearts, 

And  curious  villagers,  intent  to  scan 

The  lordly  mansion,  and  cold  worldly  men, 

E'en  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  warning  shroud, 

Revolving  selfish  schemes. 

But  one  was  there, 

To  whom  all  earth  could  render  nothing  back, 
Like  that  pale,  changeless  brow.     Calmly  she  stood, 
As  marble  statue.     Not  one  trickling  tear 
Or  trembling  of  the  eyelid  told  she  lived, 
Or  tasted  sorrow.     The  old  house-dog  came, 
Pressing  his  rough  head  to  her  snowy  palm, 
All  unreproved. 

He  for  his  master  mourn* d ; 
And  could  she  spurn  that  faithful  friend,  who  oft 
His  shaggy  length  through  many  a  fireside  hour 
Stretch'd  at  her  father's  feet  ?  who  round  his  bed 
Of  sickness  watch' d  with  wistful,  wondering  eye 
Of  earnest  sympathy  ?     No,  round  his  neck 
Her  infant  arms  had  clasp'd,  and  still  he  raised 
His  noble  front  bosids  her,  proud  to  guard 
The  last,  loved  relic  of  his  master's  house. 


The  deadly  calmness  of  ;that  mourner's  brow 
Was  a  deep  riddle  to  the  lawless  thought 


236  THE   MOURNING  DAUGHTER. 

Of  babbling  gossips.     Of  her  sire  they  spake, 

Who  suffer 'd  not  the  winds  of  heaven  to  touch 

The  tresses  of  his  darling,  and  who  dream' d, 

In  the  warm  passion  of  his  heart's  sole  love, 

She  was  a  mate  for  angels.     Bold  they  gazed 

Upon  her  tearless  cheek,  and,  murmuring,  said, 

"How  strange  that  he  should  be  so  lightly  mourn'd." 

Oh  woman,  oft  misconstrued  !  the  pure  pearls 

Lie  all  too  deep  in  thy  heart's  secret  well, 

For  the  unpausing  and  impatient  hand 

To  win  them  forth.     In  that  meek  maiden's  breast 

Sorrow  and  loneliness  sank  darkly  down, 

Though  the  blanch'd  lip  breath'd  out  no  boisterous  plaint 

Of  common  grief. 

E'en  on  to  life's  decline, 

Through  all  the  giddy  round  of  prosperous  years, 
The  birth  of  new  affections,  and  the  charms 
That  cluster  round  earth's  favourites,  there  walk'd 
Still  at  her  side  the  imago  of  her  sire, 
As  in  that  hour,  when  his  cold,  glazing  eye 
Met  hers,  and  knew  her  not.     When  her  full  cup 
Perchance  had  foam'd  with  pride,  that  icy  glance, 
Checking  its  effervescence,  taught  her  soul 
The  chasten'd  wisdom  of  attemper* d  joy. 


INDIAN   NAMES.  237 


INDIAN  NAMES. 


How  can  the  Red  men  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  of  our  states  and  territories,  bays, 
lakes  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamped  by  the  names  of  their  giving?" 


YE  say  they  all  have  pass'd  away, 
That  noble  race  and  brave, 

That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish'd 

% 
From  off  the  crested  wave 

That  mid  the  forests  where  they  roam'd 
There  rings  no  hunter's  shout; 

But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 
Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

!Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curl'd; 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world ; 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tributes  from  the  west, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 


238  INDIAN   NAMES. 


Ye  say,  their  cone-like  cabins, 

That  cluster'd  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  fled  away  like  wither'd  leaves 

Before  the  autumn  gale : 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore ; 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Mid  all  her  young  renown ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachuset  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart ; 
Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust ; 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument. 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


FAREWELL   OF   THE    SOUL   TO   THE   BODY.     239 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 

COMPANION  dear  !  the  hour  draws  nigh, 
The  sentence  speeds — to  die,  to  die. 
So  long  in  mystic  union  held, 
So  close  with  strong  embrace  compell'd, 
How  canst  thou  bear  the  dread  decree, 
That  strikes  thy  clasping  nerves  from  me  ? 
— To  Him  who  on  this  mortal  shore, 
The  same  encircling  vestment  wore, 
To  Him  I  look,  to  Him  I  bend, 
To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  commend. 
— If  I  have  ever  caused  thee  pain, 
The  throbbing  breast,  the  burning  brain, 
With  cares  and  vigils  turn'd  thee  pale, 
And  scorn'd  thee  when  thy  strength  did  fail, 
Forgive  !  forgive  ! — thy  task  doth  cease, 
Friend  !  Lover  ! — let  us  part  in  peace. 
If  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my  force, 
Or,  trifling,  stay  mine  upward  course, 


240  FAREWELL  OF  T,HE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 


Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering  trust ; 
Or  bow  my  drooping  wing  to  dust, 
I  blame  thee  not,  the  strife  is  done ; 
I  knew  thou  wert  the  weaker  one, 
The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod, 
Constrain'd  to  hold  the  breath  of  God. 
— Well  hast  thou  in  my  service  wrought ; 
Thy  brow  hath  mirror 'd  forth  my  thought; 
To  wear  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glow'd; 
Thy  tear,  to  speak  my  sorrows,  flow'd; 
Thine  ear  hath  borne  me  rich  supplies 
Of  sweetly  varied  melodies ; 
Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have  done ; 
Thy  feet  upon  mine  errands  run — 
Yes,  thou  hast  mark'd  my  bidding  well. 
Faithful  and  true  !  farewell,  farewell. 

— Go  to  thy  rest.     A  quiet  bed 
Meek  mother  Earth  with  flowers  shall  spread, 
Where  I  no  more  thy  deep  may  break 
With  fever 'd  dream,  nor  rudely  wake 
Thy  wearied  eye. 

Oh,  quit  thy  hold, 

For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold, 
And  long  thy  gasp  and  groan  of  pain 
Have  bound  me  pitying  in  thy  chain, 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODY. 

Though  angels  urge  me  hence  to  soar, 

Where  I  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 

— Yet  we  shall  meet.     To  soothe  thy  pain, 

Remember,  we  shall  meet  again. 

Quell  with  this  hope  the  victor's  sting, 

And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring. 

When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy  breast, 

And  nought  but  ashes  mark  thy  rest; 

When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow  dark, 

And  proud  suns  quench  their  glow-worm  spark, 

Keep  thou  that  hope,  to  light  thy  gloom, 

Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 

— Then  shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and  fair, 

Nor  spot  nor  stain  nor  wrinkle  bear ; 

And  I,  with  hovering  wing  elate, 

The  bursting  of  thy  bonds  shall  wait, 

And  breathe  the  welcome  of  the  sky — 

"No  more  to  part,  no  more  to  die, 

Co-heir  of  Immortality." 


242  WINTER'S   FETE. 


WINTER'S  FETE. 

I  WOKE,  and  every  lordling  of  the  grove 
Was  clad  in  diamonds,  and  the  lowliest  shrub 
Did  wear  its  crest  of  brilliants  gallantly. 
The  swelling  hillocks,  with  their  woven  vines, 
The  far-seen  forests  and  the  broken  hedge, 
Yea,  every  thicket  gleam'd  in  bright  array, 
As  for  some  gorgeous  fete  of  fairy-land. 

Ho !  jewel-keeper  of  the  hoary  North, 
Whence  hast  thou  all  these  treasures  ?     Why,  the  mines 
Of  rich  Golconda,  since  the  world  was  young, 
Would  fail  to  furnish  such  a  glorious  show. 
The  queen,  who  to  her  coronation  comes 
With  half  a  realm's  exchequer  on  her  head, 
Dazzleth  the  shouting  crowd.     But  all  the  queens 
Who  since  old  Egypt's  buried  dynasty 
Have  here  and  there,  amid  the  mists  of  time, 
Lifted  their  tiny  sceptres — all  the  throng 


WINTER'S   FETE.  243 


Of  peeresses,  who  at  some  birth-night  flaunt, 
Might  boast  no  moiety  of  the  gems  thy  hand 
So  lavishly  hath  strewn  o'er  this  old  tree, 
Fast  by  my  window. 

Every  noteless  thorn, 

E'en  the  coarse  sumach  and  the  bramble-bush, 
Do  sport  their  diadems,  as  if,  forsooth, 
Our  plain  republic  in  a  single  night 
Put  forth  such  growth  of  aristocracy 
That  no  plebeian  in  the  land  was  left 
Uncoroneted.     Broider'd  frost-work  wraps 
Yon  stunted  pear-tree,  whose  ne'er  ripen'd  fruit, 
Acid  and  bitter,  every  truant  boy 
Blamed  with  set  teeth.     Lo !  while  I  speak,  its  crown 
Kindleth  in  bossy  crimson,  and  a  stream 
Of  Tyrian  purple,  blent  with  emerald  spark, 
Floats  round  its  rugged  arms ;  while  here  and  there 
Gleams  out  a  living  sapphire,  mid  a  knot 
Of  trembling  rubies,  whose  exquisite  ray 
O'erpowers  the  astonish'd  sight. 

One  arctic  queen, 

For  one  ice-palace,  rear'd  with  fearful  toil, 
And  soon  dissolving,  scrupled  not  to  pay 
Her  vassal's  life  ;  and  emperors  of  old 
Have  drain'd  their  coffers  for  the  people's  gaze, 
Though  but  a  single  amphitheatre 


244  WINTER'S    FETE. 


Compress'd  the  crowd.     But  thou,  whose  potent  wand 

Call'd  forth  such  grand  enchantment,  swift  as  thought, 

And  silent  as  a  vision,  and  canst  spread 

Its  wondrous  beauty  to  each  gazing  eye, 

Nor  be  the  poorer,  thou  art  scorn'd  and  bann'd 

Mid  all  thy  beauty.     Summer  scantly  sheds 

A  few  brief  dew-drops  for  the  sun  to  dry, 

And  wins  loud  praise  from  every  piping  swain 

For  the  proud  feat. 

Yet,  certes,  in  these  days, 
When  wealth  is  so  esteem'd  that  he  who  boasts 
The  longest  purse  is  sure  the  wisest  man, 
Winter,  who  thus  affords  to  sprinkle  gems, 
Mile  after  mile,  on  all  the  landscape  round, 
And  decks  his  new-made  peers  in  richer  robes 
Than  monarch  ever  gave,  deserves  more  thanks 
Than  to  be  call'd  rude  churl,  and  miser  old. 
— I  tell  thee  he's  a  friend ;  and  Love,  who  sits 
So  quiet  in  the  corner,  whispering  long 
In  Beauty's  ear,  by  the  bright  evening  fire, 
Shall  join  my  verdict.     Yes,  the  King  of  storms, 
So  long  decried,  hath  revenue  more  rich 
Than  sparkling  diamonds. 

Look  within  thy  heart, 

When  the  poor  shiver  in  their  snow-wreath' d  cell, 
Or  the  sad  orphan  mourns,  and  if  thou  find 


WINTER'S   FETE.  245 


An  answering  pity,  and  a  fervent  deed 
Done  in  Christ's  name,  doubt  not  to  be  an  heir 
Of  that  true  wealth,  which  Winter  hoardeth  up 
To  buy  the  soul  a  mansion  with  the  blest. 


246  ANNA  BOLEYN. 


ANNA  BOLEYN. 


On  seeing  the  axe  with  which  Anna  Boleyn  was  "beheaded,  still  preserved  in  the  Tower 

of  London. 


STERN  minister  of  fate  severe, 

Who,  drunk  with  beauty's  blood, 
Defying  time,  dost  linger  here, 
And  frown  with  ruffian  visage  drear, 
Like  beacon  on  destruction's  flood, — 
Say  !  when  ambition's  gorgeous  dream 
First  lured  thy  victim's  heart  aside, 
Why,  like  a  serpent,  didst  thou  hide, 
Mid  clustering  flowers  and  robes  of  pride. 

Thy  warning  gleam  ? 

Hadst  thou  but  once  arisen  in  vision  dread, 
From  glory's  fearful  cliff  her  startled  step  had  fled. 

Ah !  little  she  reck'd,  when  St.  Edward's  crown 
So  heavily  press'd  her  tresses  fair, 
That,  with  sleepless  wrath,  its  thorns  of  care 

Would  rankle  within  her  couch  of  down ! 


ANNA   BOLEYN.  247 


To  the  tyrant's  bower, 

In  her  beauty's  power,   • 
She  came  as  a  lamb  to  the  lion's  lair, 
As  the  light  bird  cleaves  the  fields  of  air, 
And  carols  blithe  and  sweet,  while  Treachery  weaves  its  snare. 

Think  !  what  were  her  pangs  as  she  traced  her  fate 
On  that  changeful  monarch's  brow  of  hate  ? 
What  were  the  thoughts  which,  at  midnight  hour, 
Throng'd  o'er  her  soul,  in  yon  dungeon  tower  ? 
Regret,  with  pencil  keen, 
Retouch'd  the  deepening  scene  : 
Gay  France,  which  bade  with  sunny  skies 
Her  careless  childhood's  pleasures  rise ; 
Earl  Percy's  love,  his  youthful  grace ; 
Her  gallant  brother's  fond  embrace ; 
Her  stately  father's  feudal  halls, 
Where  proud  heraldic  annals  deck'd  the  ancient  walls. 

Wrapt  in  the  scaffold's  gloom, 
Brief  tenant  of  that  living  tomb 
She  stands  ! — the  life-blood  chills  her  heart, 
And  her  tender  glance  from  earth  does  part ; 
But  her  infant  daughter's  image  fair 
In  the  smile  of  innocence  is  there, 
It  clings  to  her  soul  mid  its  last  despair ; 


248  ANNA   BOLEYN. 


And  the  desolate  queen  is  doom'd  to  know 
How  far  a  mother's  grief  transcends  a  martyr's  wo. 

Say !  did  prophetic  light 
Illume  her  darkening  sight, 
Painting  the  future  island-queen, 
Like  the  fabled  bird,  all  hearts  surprising, 
Bright  from  blood-stain'd  ashes  rising, 
Wise,  energic,  bold,  serene  ? 
Ah  no !  the  scroll  of  time 
Is  seal'd;  and  hope  sublime 
Rests  but  on  those  far  heights  which  mortals  may  not  climb. 

The  dying  prayer,  with  trembling  fervour,  speeds 
For  that  false  monarch  by  whose  will  she  bleeds ; 
For  him,  who,  listening  on  that  fatal  morn, 
Hears  her  death-signal  o'er  the  distant  lawn 

From  the  deep  cannon  speaking, 
Then  springs  to  mirth,  and  winds  his  bugle-horn, 

And  riots  while  her  blood  is  reeking : — 
For  him  she  prays,  in  seraph  tone, 

"Oh!  be  his  sins  forgiven  ! 
Who  raised  me  to  an  earthly  throne, 
And  sends  me  now,  from  prison  lone, 
To  be  a  saint  in  heaven." 


"  Often  "have  we  liusKd 
Hie  shrillist  eclio  of  our  holiday; 
Tummo  OUT  mirtli  to  reverence  as  lie  pa'JS'd. 
Ai;d  ca;?er  to  record  one  faTonng  r^n\il>-. 
Jr  7/-ord paternal." 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    AN   AGED    PASTOR.       249 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PASTOR. 

I  DO  remember  him.     His  saintly  voice, 
So  duly  lifted  in  the  house  of  God, 
Comes,  with  the  far-off  wing  of  infant  years, 
Like  solemn  music.     Often  have  we  hush'd 
The  shrillest  echo  of  our  holiday, 
Turning  our  mirth  to  reverence  as  he  pass'd, 
And  eager  to  record  one  favouring  smile, 
Or  word  paternal. 

At  the  bed  of  death 

I  do  remember  him;  when  one,  who  bore 
For  me  a  tender  love,  did  feel  that  pang 
Which  makes  the  features  rigid,  and  the  eye 
Like  a  fix'd,  glassy  orb.     Her  head  was  white 
With  many  winters,  but  her  furrow'd  brow 
To  me  was  beautiful ;  for  she  had  cheer'd 
My  lonely  childhood  with  a  changeless  stream 
Of  pure  benevolence.     His  earnest  tone, 
Girding  her  from  the  armory  of  God 
To  foil  the  terrors  of  that  shadowy  vale 


250       RECOLLECTIONS    OF    AN   AGED   PASTOR. 

Through  which  she  walk'd,  doth  linger  round  me  still ; 

And  by  that  gush  of  bitter  tears,  when  first 

Grief  came  into  my  bosom — by  that  thrill 

Of  agony,  which  from  the  open  grave 

Rose  wildly  forth — I  do  remember  him, 

The  comforter  and  friend. 

When  Fancy's  smile, 

Gilding  youth's  scenes,  and  promising  to  bring 
The  curtain' d  morrow  fairer  than  to-day, 
Enkindled  wilder  gayety  than  fits 
Beings  so  frail,  how  oft  his  funeral  prayer 
Over  some  shrouded  sleeper  made  a  pause 
In  folly's  song,  or  warn'd  her  roving  eye 
That  all  man's  glory  was  the  flower  of  grass 
Beneath  the  mower's  scythe. 

His  fourscore  years 

Sat  lightly  on  him ;  for  his  heart  was  glad, 
E'en  to  its  latest  pulse,  with  that  fond  love, 
Home-nurtured  and  reciprocal,  which  girds 
And  garners  up,  in  sorrow  and  in  joy. 
— I  was  not  with  the  weepers  when  the  hearse 
Stood  all  expectant  at  his  pleasant  door, 
And  other  voices  from  his  pulpit  said 
That  he  was  not:  but  yet  the  echo'd  dirge 
Of  that  sad  organ,  in  its  sable  robe, 
Made  melancholy  music  in  my  dreams. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   AN    AGED   PASTOR.       251 

— And  so,  farewell,  thou  who  didst  shed  the  dew 
Baptismal  on  mine  infant  head,  and  lead 
To  the  Redeemer's  sacred  board  a  guest 
Timid  and  unassured,  yet  gathering  strength 
From  the  blest  promise  of  Jehovah's  aid 
Unto  the  early  seeker.     When  again 
My  native  spot  unfolds  that  pictured  chart 
Unto  mine  eye,  which  in  my  heart  I  hold, 
Rocks,  woods,  and  waters  exquisitely  blent, 
Thy  cordial  welcome  I  no  more  shall  hear, 
Father  and  guide ;  nor  can  I  hope  to  win 
Thy  glance  from  glory's  mansion,  while  I  strew 
This  wild-flower  garland  on  thine  honour'd  tomb. 


252  FALLS   OF   THE   YANTIC. 


FALLS  OF  THE  YANTIC. 

HILLS,  rocks,  and  waters !  here  ye  lie, 
And  o'er  ye  spreads  the  same  blue  sky, 

As  when,  in  early  days, 
My  childish  foot  your  cliffs  essay 'd, 
My  wondering  eye  your  depth  survey'd, 

Where  the  vex'd  torrent  stays. 

O'er  bolder  scenes  mine  age  hath  stray 'd 
By  floods  that  make  your  light  cascade 

Seem  as  an  infant's  play ; 
Yet  dearer  is  it  still  to  me, 
Than  all  their  boasted  pageantry 

That  charms  the  traveller's  way. 

For  here,  enchanted,  side  by  side, 
With  me  would  many  a  playmate  glide 

When  school-day's  task  was  o'er, 
Who  deem'd  this  world,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Had  nought  of  power  or  wonder  known 

Like  thy  resounding  shore. 


FALLS   OF   THE    YANTIC.  253 

Light-hearted  group  !  I  see  je  still, 
For  Memory's  pencil,  at  her  will, 

Doth  tint  ye  bright  and  rare ; 
Ked  lips,  from  whence  glad  laughter  rang, 
Elastic  limbs  that  tireless  sprang, 

And  curls  of  sunny  hair. 

I  will  not  ask  if  change  or  care 

Have  coldly  marr'd  those  features  fair ; 

For,  by  myself,  I  know 
We  cannot  till  life's  evening  keep 
The  flowers  that  on  its  dewy  steep 

At  earliest  dawn  did  blow. 

Yet,  lingering  round  this  hallow'd  spot, 
I  call  them,  though  they  answer  not, 

For  some  have  gone  their  way, 
To  sleep  that  sleep  which  none  may  break, 
Until  the  resurrection  wake 

The  prisoners  from  their  clay. 

But  thou,  most  fair  and  fitful  stream, 
First  prompter  of  my  musing  dream, 

Still  lovingly  dost  smile, 
And,  heedless  of  the  conflict  hoarse 
With  the  rude  rocks  that  bar  thy  course, 

My  lonely  walk  beguile. 


•254  FALLS   OF    THE   YANTIC. 

Still  thou  art  changed,  my  favourite  scene ! 
For  man  hath  stolen  thy  cliffs  between, 

And  torn  thy  grassy  sod ; 
And  bade  the  intrusive  mill-wheel  dash, 
And  many  a  ponderous  engine  crash, 

Where  Nature  dream' d  of  God. 

Yet  to  the  spot  where  first  we  drew 

Our  breath,  we  turn  unchanged  and  true, 

As  to  a  nurse's  breast ; 
And  count  it,  e'en  till  hoary  age, 
The  Mecca  of  our  pilgrimage, 

Of  all  the  earth  most  blest. 

And  so,  thou  cataract,  strangely  wild, 
My  own  loved  Yantic's  wayward  child, 

That  still  dost  foam  and  start ; 
Though  slight  thou  art,  I  love  thee  well, 
And,  pleased,  the  lay  thy  praise  doth  tell, 

Which  gushes  from  the  heart. 


WIDOW    AT    HER   DAUGHTER'S   BRIDAL.        255 


WIDOW  AT  HER  DAUGHTER'S  BRIDAL. 

DEAL  gently  thou,  -whose  hand  hath  won 

The  young  bird  from  its  nest  away, 
Where  careless,  'neath  a  vernal  sun, 

She  sweetly  carol' d  day  by  day. 
The  haunt  is  lone,  the  heart  must  grieve, 

From  whence  her  timid  wing  doth  soar; 
They  pensive  list  at  hush  of  eve, 

Yet  hear  her  gushing  song  no  more. 

Deal  gently  with  her;  thou  art  dear, 

Beyond  what  vestal  lips  have  told, 
And,  like  a  lamb  from  fountains  clear, 

She  turns  confiding  to  thy  fold; 
She,  round  thy  sweet  domestic  bower, 

The  wreath  of  changeless  love  shall  twine, 
Watch  for  thy  step  at  vesper  hour, 

And. blend  her  holiest  prayer  with  thine. 


256         WIDOW    AT    HER    DAUGHTER'S    BRIDAL. 

Deal  gently  thou,  when,  far  away, 

Mid  stranger  scenes  her  foot  shall  rove. 
Nor  let  thy  tender  care  decay — 

The  soul  of  woman  lives  in  love. 
And  shouldst  thou,  wondering,  mark  a  tear, 

Unconscious,  from  her  eyelids  break, 
Be  pitiful,  and  soothe  the  fear 

That  man's  strong  heart  may  ne'er  partake. 

A  mother  yields  her  gem  to  thee, 

On  thy  true  breast  to  sparkle  rare ; 
She  places  'neath  thy  household  tree 

The  idol  of  her  fondest  care ; 
And  by  thy  trust  to  be  forgiven, 

When  judgment  wakes  in  terror  wild, 
By  all  thy  treasured  hopes  of  heaven, 

Deal  gently  with  the  widow's  child. 


MARRIAGE    OF   THE   DEAF   AND   DUMB.          257 


MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

No  word  !  no  sound  !     But  yet  a  solemn  rite 
Is  consummated  in  yon  festive  hall. 
Hearts  are  in  treaty,  and  the  soul  doth  take 
That  oath,  which,  unabsolved,  must  stand  till  death, 
With  icy  seal,  doth  stamp  the  scroll  of  life. 
No  word !  no  sound  !     But  still  a  holy  man 
With  strong  and  graceful  gesture  doth  impose 
The  irrevocable  vow,  and  with  meek  prayer 
Present  it  to  be  registered  in  heaven. 

Methinks  this  silence  heavily  doth  brood 
Upon  the  spirit.     Say,  thou  flower-crown' d  bride", 
What  means  the  sigh  which  from  that  ruby  lip 
Doth  'scape,  as  if  to  seek  some  element 
Which  angels  breathe  ? 

Mute  !  mute  !  'tis  passing  strange  ! 
Like  necromancy  all.     And  yet,  'tis  well ; 
For  the  deep  trust  with  which  a  maiden  casts 
Her  all  of  earth,  perchance  her  all  of  heaven, 


258          MARRIAGE   OF    THE   DEAF   AND   DUMB. 

Into  a  mortal's  hand, — the  confidence 
With  which  she  turns  in  every  thought  to  him, 
Her  more  than  brother,  and  her  next  to  God, — 
Hath  never  yet  been  shadow' d  forth  in  sound, 
Or  told  in  language. 

So,  ye  voiceless  pair, 

Pass  on  in  hope.     For  ye  may  build  as  firm 
Your  silent  altar  in  each  other's  hearts, 
And  catch  the  sunshine  through  the  clouds  of  time 
As  cheerily,  as  though  the  pomp  of  speech 
Did  herald  forth  the  deed.     And  when  ye  dwell 
Where  flowers  fade  not,  and  death  no  treasured  link 
Hath  power  to  sever  more,  ye  need  not  mourn 
The  ear  sequestrate,  and  the  tuneless  tongue ; 
For  there  the  eternal  dialect  of  love 
Is  the  free  breath  of  every  happy  soul. 


THE   FRIENDS   OF    MAN.  259 


THE  FRIENDS  OF  MAN. 

THE  young  babe  sat  on  its  mother's  knee, 
Shaking  its  coral  and  bells  with  glee, 
When  Hope  drew  near,  with  a  seraph  smile, 
To  press  the  lips  that  had  breathed  no  guile, 

Nor  spoke  the  words  of  sorrow ; 
Its  little  sister  brought  a  flower, 
And  Hope,  still  lingering  nigh 
"With  sunny  tress  and  sparkling  eye, 
Whisper'd  of  one  in  a  brighter  bower 
It  might  pluck  for  itself  to-morrow. 

The  boy  came  in  from  the  wintry  snow, 
And  mused  by  the  parlour-fire ; 

But  ere  the  evening  lamps  did  glow, 

A  stranger  came,  and,  bending  low, 
Closely  scann'd  his  ruddy  brow. 

"What  is  that  in  your  hand?"  she  said; 

"My  New- Year's  Gift,  with  its  covers  red.' 


260  THE    FRIENDS   OF   MAN. 

"Bring  hither  the  book,  my  boy,  and  see, 
The  magic  spell  of  Memory. 
That  page  hath  gold,  and  a  way  I'll  find 
To  lock  it  safe  in  your  docile  mind ; 
For  books  have  honey,  the  sages  say, 
That  is  sweet  to  the  taste  when  the  hair  is  gray." 

The  youth  at  midnight  sought  his  bed, 

But,  ere  he  closed  his  eyes,  , 
Two  forms  drew  near  with  gentle  tread, 

In  meek  and  saintly  guise. 
One  struck  a  lyre  of  wondrous  power, 

With  thrilling  music  fraught, 
That  chain' d  the  flying  summer  hour, 

And  charm'd  the  listener's  thought; 
For  still  would  its  tender  cadence  be, 

"Follow  me  !  follow  me ! 
And  every  morn  a  smile  shall  bring, 
As  sweet  as  the  merry  lay  I  sing." — 
She  ceased,  and  with  a  serious  air 

The  other  made  reply, 
"  Shall  he  not  also  be  my  care  ? 
May  not  I  his  journey  share  ? 

Sister  !  sister  !  tell  me  why  ? 
Need  Memory  e'er  with  Hope  contend  ? 
Doth  not  the  virtuous  soul  still  find  in  both  a  friend?' 


THE    FRIENDS   OF   MAN.  261 


The  youth  beheld  the  strife, 

And  eagerly  replied, 
"  Come,  both,  and  be  my  guide, 

And  gild  the  path  of  life;" 
So  he  gave  to  each  a  brother's  kiss, 
And  laid  him  down,  -and  his  dream  was  bliss. 

The  man  came  forth  to  run  his  race, 
And  ever  when  the  morning  light 
Roused  him  from  the  trance  of  night, 
When,  singing  from  her  nest, 
The  lark  went  up  with  dewy  breast, 
Hope  by  his  pillow  stood  with  angel  grace ; 
And,  as  a  mother  cheers  her  son, 
She  girded  his  daily  harness  on. 
But  when  the  star  of  eve,  from  weary  care, 

Bade  him  to  his  home  repair. 

When  by  the  hearth-stone  where  his  joys  were  born 
The  cricket  wound  its  tiny  horn, 
Sober  Memory  spread  her  board 
With  knowledge  richly  stored, 

And  supp'd  with  him,  and  like  a  guardian  bless'd 

« 
His  nightly  rest. 

The  old  man  sat  in  his  elbow-chair, 
His  locks  were  thin  and  gray, 


262  THE    FRIENDS    OF   MAN. 

Memory,  that  faithful  friend,  was  there, 

And  he  in  querulous  tone  did  say, 
"  Hast  thou  not  lost,  with  careless  key, 
Something  that  I  have  intrusted  to  thee  ?" 

Her  pausing  answer  was  sad  and  low, 
"It  may  be  so !     It  may  be  so ! 
The  lock  of  my  casket  is  worn  and  weak, 
And  Time  with  a  plunderer's  eye  doth  seek ; 

Something  I  miss,  but  I  cannot  say 

What  it  is  he  hath  stolen  away, 

For  only  tinsel  and  trifles  spread 

Over  the  alter 'd  path  we  tread ; 
But  the  gems  thou  didst  give  me  when  life  was  new, 

Here  they  are,  all  told  and  true, 
Diamonds  and  rubies  of  changeless  hue." 

But  while  in  grave  debate, 
Mournful,  and  ill  at  ease,  they  sate, 

Finding  treasures  disarranged, 
Blaming  the  fickle  world,  though  they  themselves  were 

changed, 

Hope  on  a  buoyant  wing  did  soar, 
Which  folded  underneath  her  robe  she  wore, 
And  spread  its  rainbow  plumes  with  new  delight, 
And  jeoparded  its  strength,  in  a  bold,  heavenward  flight. 


THE   FRIENDS    OF   MAN.  263 

The  dying  lay  on  his  couch  of  pain, 

And  his  soul  went  forth  to  the  angel-train ; 

Yet  when  Heaven's  gate  its  golden  bars  undrew 

Memory  walk'd  that  portal  through, 
And  spread  her  tablet  to  the  Judge's  eye, 
Heightening  with  clear  response  the  welcome  of  the  sky. 

But  Hope  that  glorious  door 
Pass'd  not :  it  was  not  hers  to  dwell 
Where  pure  desires  to  full  fruition  swell. 

Her  ministry  was  o'er : 
To  cheer  earth's  pilgrim  toward  the  sky, 
To  cleanse  the  tear-drop  from  his  eye, 
Was  hers, — then  to  immortal  Joy 

Resign  her  brief  employ, 
Break  her  sweet  harp,  and  die. 


264  TO   A    GOOSE. 


TO  A  GOOSE. 

I  CANNOT  bear  to  hear  thee  slander'd,  Goose  ! 
It  irketh  me  to  see  the  truant  boys 
Pause  in  their  play,  and  cast  a  stone  at  thee, 
And  call  thee  foolish. 

Do  those  worthies  know 

That  when  old  Rome  had  let  the  ruffian  Gauls 
Tread  on  her  threshold  of  vitality, 
And  all  her  sentinels  were  comatose, 
Thy  clarion-call  did  save  her  ?     Mighty  strange 
To  call  tJiee  fool ! 

I  think  thou'rt  dignified 
And  portly  in  thy  bearing,  and  in  all 
The  duties  and  proprieties  of  life 
Art  quite  a  pattern.     Yet  the  duck  may  quack. 
The  turkey  gabble,  and  the  guinea-hen 
Keep  up  a  piercing  and  perpetual  scream, 
And  all  is  well ;  but  if  thou  ope  thy  beak, 
"JFi'e,  silly  creature!" 

Yet  I'm  sure  thou'st  done 


TO   A    GOOSE.  265 


Many  a  clever  and  obliging  deed; 

And  more  than  this,  thou  from  thy  wing  dost  spare 

An  outcast  feather,  which  hath  woke  the  world, 

And  made  it  wiser.     Yea,  the  modest  quill 

Doth  take  its  quiet  stand  behind  the  press, 

And,  like  a  prompter,  tell  it  what  to  say. 

But  still  we  never  praise  the  goose,  who  gave 

This  precious  gift.     Yet  what  can  fill  its  place  ? 

Think  of  the  clumsy  stylus,  how  absurd  ! 

I  know,  indeed,  that  smart  metallic  pens 

Have  undertaken  to  speculate  at  large ; 

But  I  eschew  them  all,  and  prophesy 

Goose-quills  will  be  immortal  as  the  art 

To  which  they  minister.     'Twere  meet  for  me, 

Though  all  besides  were  dumb,  to  fondly  laud 

The  instrument  that  from  my  childhood  up 

Hath  been  my  solace  and  my  chosen  friend 

In  hours  of  loneliness. 

I'd  fain  propose 

That,  mid  the  poultry  in  the  farmer's  yard, 
The  goose  should  wear  a  ducal  coronet, 
If  our  republic  would  but  authorize 
Aught  like  an  order  of  nobility. 
Yet,  sure,  I'll  institute  a  simple  claim 
For  justice  long  withheld.     I  ask  my  peers, 
The  erudite  and  learned  in  the  law, 


266  TO   A    GOOSE. 


Why  the  recusant  owl  is  singled  out 
As  Wisdom's  bird  ?     If  blind  Mythology, 
Who  on  her  fingers  scarcely  knew  to  count 
Her  thirty  thousand  gods,  should  groping  make 
Such  error,  'tis  not  strange.     But  we,  who  skill 
To  ride  the  steam,  and  have  a  goodly  hope 
To  ride  the  lightning  too,  need  we  be  ruled 
By  vacillating  Delphos  ?  or  enticed 
To  sanction  her  mistakes  ? 

The  aforesaid  owl, 

With  his  dull,  staring  eyes,  what  hath  he  done 
To  benefit  mankind  ?     Moping  all  day 
Amid  some  dodder'd  oak,  and  then  at  night, 
With  hideous  hooting  and  wild  flapping  wings, 
Scaring  the  innocent  child.     What  hath  he  done 
To  earn  a  penny,  or  to  make  the  world 
Richer  in  any  way  ?     I  doubt  if  he 
E'en  gets  an  honest  living.     Who  can  say 
Whether  such  midnight  rambles,  none  know  where, 
Are  for  his  credit  ?     Yet  the  priceless  crown 
Of  wisdom  he,  in  symbol  and  in  song, 
Unrighteously  hath  worn. 

But  times  have  changed, 
Most  reverend  owl !     Utility  bears  rule, 
And  the  shrewd  spirit  of  a  busy  age 
Dotes  not  on  things  antique,  nor  pays  respect 


TO   A    GOOSE.  267 


To  hoary  hairs,  but  counts  it  loss  of  time 

To  honour  whatsoever  fails  to  yield 

A  fat  per  centage.     Yet  thou'rt  not  ashamed 

To  live  a  gentleman,  nor  bronze  thy  claw 

With  manual  labour,  stupidly  content 

To  be  a  burden  on  community. 

— Meantime,  the  worthy  and  hard-working  goose 
Hath  rear'd  up  goslings,  fed  us  with  her  flesh, 
Lull'd  us  to  sleep  upon  her  softest  down, 
And  with  her  quills  maintain' d  the  lover's  lore, 
And  saved  the  tinsel  of  the  poet's  brain. 
— Dear  goose,  thou'rt  greatly  wrong'd. 

I  move  the  owl 

Be  straightway  swept  from  the  usurper's  seat, 
And  thou  forthwith  be  voted  for,  to  fill 
Minerva's  arms. 

The  flourish  of  a  pen 

Hath  saved  or  lost  a  realm ;  hath  signed  the  bond 
That  made  the  poor  man  rich ;  reft  from  the  prince 
His  confiscated  wealth,  and  sent  him  forth 
A  powerless  exile ;  for  the  prisoner  bade 
The  sunbeam  tremble  through  his  iron  bars 
The  last,  last  time ;  or  changed  the  cry  of  war 
To  blessed  peace.     How  base,  to  scorn  the  bird 
Whose  cast-off  feather  hath  done  this,  and  more. 


268 


ADMISSION    OF    MICHIGAN. 


ON  THE  ADMISSION  OF  MICHIGAN  INTO 
THE  UNION. 


COME  in,  little  sister,  so  healthful  and  fair, 
Come  take  in  our  father's  best  parlour  a  share ; 
You've  been  kept  long  enough  at  the  nurse's,  I  trow, 
Where  the  angry  lakes  roar  and  the  northern  winds  blow ; 
Come  in,  we've  a  pretty  large  household,  'tis  true, 
But  the  twenty-five  children  can  make  room  for  you. 

A  present,  I  see,  for  our  sire  you  have  brought, 
His  dessert  to  embellish ;  how  kind  was  the  thought ! 
A  treat  of  ripe  berries,  both  crimson  and  blue, 
And  wild  flowers  to  stick  in  his  button-hole  too, 
The  rose  from  your  prairie,  the  nuts  from  your  tree ; 
What  a  good  little  sister !  come  hither  to  me. 

You've  a  dowry  besides  very  cunningly  stored, 
To  fill  a  nice  cupboard,  or  spread  a  broad  board, — 
Detroit,  Ypsilanti,  Ann  Arbour,  and  more ; 
For  the  youngest,  methinks,  quite  a  plentiful  store ; 


ADMISSION    OF    MICHIGAN.  269 

You're  a  prog,  I  perceive — it  is  true  to  the  letter, 
And  your  sharp  Yankee  sisters  will  like  you  the  better. 

But  where  are  your  Indians — so  feeble  and  few  ? 
So  fall'n  from  the  heights  where  their  forefathers  grew ! 
From  -the  forests  they  fade  ;  o'er  the  waters  that  bore 
The  names  of  their  baptism,  they  venture  no  more ; 
0  soothe  their  sad  hearts  ere  they  vanish  afar, 
Nor  quench  the  faint  beams  of  their  westering  star. 

Those  ladies  who  sit  on  the  sofa  so  high, 
Are  the  stateliest  dames  of  our  family, 
Your  thirteen  old  sisters, — don't  treat  them  with  scorn, 
They  were  notable  spinsters  before  you  were  born ; 
Many  stories  they  know,  most  instructive  to  hear, — 
Go,  make  them  a  curtsy,  'twill  please  them,  my  dear. 

They  can  teach  you  the  names  of  those  great  ones  to  spell, 
Who  stood  at  the  helm  when  the  war-tempest  fell ; 
They  will  show  you  the  writing  that  gleam'd  to  the  sky 
In  the  year  seventy-six,  on  the  fourth  of  July, 
When  the  flash  of  the  Bunker-Hill  flame  was  red, 
And  the  blood  gush'd  forth  from  the  breast  of  the  dead. 

There  are  some  who  may  call  them  both  proud  and  old, 
And  say  they  usurp  what  they  cannot  hold ; 


270  ADMISSION   OF   MICHIGAN. 

Perhaps,  their  bright  locks  have  a  sprinkle  of  gray, 
But  then,  little  Michy,  don't  hint  it,  I  pray, 
For  they'll  give  you  a  frown,  or  a  box  on  the  ear, 
Or  send  you  to  stand  in  the  corner,  I  fear. 

They,  indeed,  bore  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day, 
But  you've  as  good  right  to  your  penny  as  they ; 
Though  the  price  of  our  freedom  they  better  have  known, 
Since  they  paid  for  it  out  of  their  purses  alone ; 
Yet  a  portion  belongs  to  the  youngest,  I  ween, 
So,  hold  up  your  head  with  the  "  Old  Thirteen." 


STRATFORD    UPON    AVON.  271 


STRATFORD  UPON  AVON. 

WHAT  nurtured  Shakspeare  mid  these  village-shades, 
Making  a  poor  deer-stalking  lad  a  king 
In  the  broad  realm  of  mind  ? 

I  question'd  much 

Whatever  met  my  view, — the  holly-hedge, 
The  cottage-rose,  the  roof  where  he  was  born, 
And  the  pleach'd  avenue  of  limes  that  led 
To  the  old  church.     And,  pausing  there,  I  mark'd 
The  mossy  efflorescence  on  the  stones, 
Which,  kindling  in  the  sunbeam,  taught  me  how 
Its  little  seeds  were  fed  by  mouldering  life, 
And  how  another  race  of  tiny  roots, 
The  fathers  of  the  future,  should  compel 
From  hardest-hearted  rocks  a  nutriment, 
Until  the  fern-plant  and  the  ivy  sere 
Made  ancient  buttress  and  grim  battlement 
Their  nursing-mothers. 

But  again  I  ask'd, 
"What  nurtured  Shakspeare?"     The  rejoicing  birds 


272  STRATFORD   UPON   AVON. 

Wove  a  wild  song,  whose  burden  seem'd  to  be, 
He  was  their  pupil  when  he  chose,  and  knew 
Their  secret  maze  of  melody  to  wind, 
Snatching  its  sweetness  for  his  winged  strain 
With  careless  hand. 

The  timid  flowerets  said, 
a  He  came  among  us  like  a  sleepless  bee, 
And  all  those  pure  and  rarest  essences, 
Concocted  by  our  union  with  the  skies, 
Which  in  our  cups  or  zones  we  fain  would  hide, 
He  rifled  for  himself  and  bore  away." 

— The  winds  careering  in  their  might  replied, 
"  Upon  our  wings  he  rode,  and  visited 
The  utmost  stars.     We  could  not  shake  him  off. 
E'en  on  the  fleecy  clouds  he  laid  his  hand, 
As  on  a  courser's  mane,  and  made  them  work 
With  all  their  countless  hues  his  wondrous  will." 

And  then  meek  Avon  raised  a  murmuring  voice, 
What  time  the  Sabbath  chimes  came  pealing  sweet 
Through  the  umbrageous  trees,  and  told  how  oft 
Along  those  banks  he  wander 'd,  pacing  slow, 
As  if  to  read  the  depths. 

Ere  I  had  closed 
My  questioning,  the  ready  rain  came  down, 


STRATFORD   UPON   AVON.  273 

And  every  pearl-drop  as  it  kiss'd  the  turf 
Said,  "We  have  been  his  teachers.     When  we  fell 
Pattering  among  the  vine  leaves,  he  would  list 
Our  lessons  as  a  student,  nor  despise 
Our  simplest  lore." 

And  then  the  bow  burst  forth, 
That  strong  love-token  of  the  Deity 

% 

Unto  a  drowning  world.     Each  prismed  ray 
Had  held  bright  dalliance  with  the  bard,  and  help'd 
To  tint  the  robe  in  which  his  thought  was  wrapp'd 
For  its  first  cradle-sleep. 

Then  twilight  came 

In  her  gray  robe,  and  told  a  tender  tale 
Of  his  low  musings,  while  she  noiseless  drew 
Her  quiet  curtain.     And  the  queenly  moon, 
Riding  in  state  upon  her  silver  car, 
Gonfess'd  she  saw  him  oft,  through  checkering  shades, 
Hour  after  hour,  with  Fancy  by  his  side, 
Linking  their  young  imaginings,  like  chains 
Of  pearl  and  diamond. 

Last,  the  lowly  grave- 

Shakspeare's  own  grave — sent  forth  a  hollow  tone, 
"  The  heart  within  my  casket  read  itself , 
And  from  that  inward  wisdom  learn' d  to  scan 
The  hearts  of  other  men.     It  ponder'd  long 
Amid  those  hermit  cells  where  thought  is  born, 


274  STRATFORD    UPON    AVON. 

Explored  the  roots  of  passion,  and  the  founts 

Of  sympathy,  and  at  each  seal'd  recess 

Knock'd,  until  mystery  fled.     Hence  her  loved  bard 

Nature  doth  crown  with  flowers  of  every  hue 

And  every  season;  and. the  human  soul, 

Owning  his  power,  shall  at  his  magic  touch 

Shudder,  or  thrill,  while  age  on  age  expires." 


MIDNIGHT    THOUGHTS    AT    SEA.  275 


MIDNIGHT  THOUGHTS  AT  SEA. 


BORNE  upon  the  ocean's  foam, 
Far  from  native  land  and  home, 
Midnight's  curtain,  dense  with  wrath, 
Brooding  o'er  our  venturous  path, 
While  the  mountain  wave  is  rolling. 
And  the  ship's  bell  faintly  tolling: 
Saviour  !  on  the  boisterous  sea, 
Bid  us  rest  secure  in  Thee. 

Blast  and  surge,  conflicting  noarse, 
Sweep  us  on  with  headlong  force ; 
And  the  bark,  which  tempests  urge, 
Moans  and  trembles  at  their  scourge : 
Yet,  should  wildest  tempests  swell, 
Be  thou  near,  and  all  is  well. 
Saviour  !  on  the  stormy  sea, 
Let  us  find  repose  in  Thee. 


276  MIDNIGHT   THOUGHTS   AT    SEA. 

Hearts  there  are  with  love  that  burn 
When  to  us  afar  they  turn ; 
Eyes  that  show  the  rushing  tear 
If  our  utter'd  names  they  hear: 
Saviour  !  o'er  the  faithless  main, 
Bring  us'to  those  homes  again, 
As  the  trembler,  touch' d  by  Thee? 
Safely  trod  the  treacherous  sea. 

Wrecks  are  darkly  spread  below, 
Where  with  lonely  keel  we  go ; 
Gentle  brows  and  bosoms  brave 
Those  abysses  richly  pave : 
If  beneath  the  briny  deep 
We,  with  them,  should  coldly  sleep, 
Saviour  !  o'er  the  whelming  sea, 
Take  our  ransom'd  souls  to  Thee. 


THE   TOMB.  277 


THE  TOMB. 


'  So  parted  they ;  the  angel  up  to  Heaven, 
And  Adam  to  his  bower."  MILTON. 


THIS  is  the  parting  place ;  yon  turf-bound  roof, 
And  marble  door,  where  tenants  may  not  hope 
To  enter  and  return.     If  earth's  poor  gold 
E'er  clave  unto  thee,  here  unlade  thyself; 
For  thou  didst  bring  none  with  thee  to  this  world, 
Nor  mayst  thou  bear  it  hence.     Honours  hast  thou, 
Ambition's  shadowy  gatherings  ?     Shred  them  loose 
To  the  four  winds,  their  natural  element. 
Yea,  more,  thou  must  unclasp  the  living  ties 
Of  strong  affection.     Hast  thou  nurtured  babes  ? 
And  was  each  wailing  from  their  feeble  lip 
A  thorn  to  pierce  thee  ?  every  infant  smile 
And  budding  hope,  full  springs  of  ecstasy  ? 
Turn,  turn  away,  for  thou  henceforth  to  them 
A  parent  art  no  more.     Wert  thou  a  wife  ? 
And  was  the  arm  on  which  thy  spirit  lean'd 


•278  THE    TOMB. 


Faithful  in  all  thy  need  ?     Yet  must  thou  leave 
This  fond  protection,  and  pursue  alone 
Thy  shuddering  pathway  down  the  vale  of  death. 
Friendship's  free  intercourse, — the  promised  joys 
Of  soul-implanted,  soul-confiding  love, — 
The  cherish 'd  sympathies  which  every  year 
Struck  some  new  root  within  thy  yielding  breast, 
Stand  loose  from  all,  thou  lonely  voyager 
Unto  the  land  of  spirits. 

Yea,  even  more  ! 

Lay  down  the  body  !     Hast  thou  worshipp'd  it 
VYith  vanity's  sweet  incense,  and  wild  waste 
Of  precious  time  ?     Did  beauty  bring  it  gifts, 
The  lily  brow,  the  full  resplendent  eye, 
The  tress,  the  bloom,  the  grace,  whose  magic  power 
Woke  man's  idolatry  ?     The  loan  is  o'er, 
Dust  turns  to  dust. 

Yet  the  lone  soul  retains 
One  blessed  trophy ;  if  its  span  below 
Secured  the  palm  of  Christ's  atoning  love  : 
For  that  shall  win  an  entrance  when  it  stands 
A  pilgrim  at  Heaven's  gate. 


SHOW    US    THE    FATHER.  279 


"SHOW  US  THE  FATHER." 

JOHN  iv.  8. 

HAVE  ye  not  seen  Him,  when  through  parted  snows 
Wake  the  first  kindlings  of  the  vernal  green  ? 

When  'neath  its  modest  veil  the  arbutus  blows, 
And  the  pure  snow-drop  bursts  its  folded  screen  ? 

When  the  wild  rose,  that  asks  no  florist's  care, 

Unfoldeth  its  rich  leaves,  have  ye  not  seen  him  there  ? 

Have  ye  not  seen  Him,  when  the  infant's  eye, 

Through  its  bright  sapphire-windows,  shows  the  mind  ? 

When,  in  the  trembling  of  the  tear  or  sigh, 

Floats  forth  that  essence,  trembling  and  refined  ? 

Saw  ye  not  Him,  the  author  of  our  trust, 

Who  breathed  the  breath  of  life  into  a  frame  of  dust  ? 

Have  ye  not  heard  Him,  when  the  tuneful  rill 

Casts  off  its  icy  chains  and  leaps  away  ? 
In  thunders  echoing  loud  from  hill  to  hill  ? 

In  song  of  birds  at  break  of  summer's  day  ? 


2SO  SHOW    US    THE    FATHER. 

Or  in  the  ocean's  everlasting  roar, 

Battling  the  old  gray  rocks  that  sternly  guard  his  shore  ? 

Amid  the  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  morn, 
When  vexing  cares  in  tranquil  slumber  rest, 

When  in  the  heart  the  holy  thought  is  born, 

And  Heaven's  high  impulse  warms  the  waiting  breast, 

Have  ye  not  felt  Him,  while  your  kindling  prayer 

S well'd  out  in  tones  of  praise,  announcing  God  was  there  ? 

SJww  us  the  Father  !     If  ye  fail  to  trace 

His  chariot  where  the  stars  majestic  roll, 
His  pencil  mid  earth's  loveliness  and  grace., 

His  presence  in  the  Sabbath  of  the  soul, 
How  can  you  see  Him  till  the  day  of  dread, 
When  to  assembled  worlds  the  book  of  doom  is  read  ? 


NAPOLEON   AT   HELENA.  281 


NAPOLEON  AT  HELENA. 


"  The  moon  of  St.  Helena  shone  out,  and  there  we  saw  the  face  of  Napoleon's  sepulchre, 
cliaracterless,  uninscribed." 


And  who  shall  write  thine  epitaph,  thou  man 
Of  mystery  and  might  ? 

Shall  orphan  hands 

Inscribe  it  with  their  fathers'  broken  swords  ? 
Or  the  warm  trickling  of  the  widow's  tear 
Channel  it  slowly  mid  the  rugged  rock, 
As  the  keen  torture  of  the  water-drop 
Doth  wear  the  sentenced  brain  ? 

Shall  countless  ghosts 
Arise  from  Hades,  and  in  lurid  flame, 
With  shadowy  finger,  trace  thine  effigy, 
Who  sent  them  to  their  audit  unanneal'd, 
And  with  but  that  brief  space  for  shrift  or  prayer 
Given  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ? 

Thou  who  didst  sit 
Like  eagle  on  the  apex  of  the  globe, 
And  hear  the  murmur  of  its  conquer 'd  tribes, 


282  NAPOLEON   AT   HELENA. 


As  chirp  the  weak-voiced  nations  of  the  grass, 
Say,  art  thou  sepulchred  in  yon  far  isle, 
Yon  little  speck,  which  scarce  the  mariner 
Descries  mid  ocean's  foam  ?     Thou  who  didst  hew 
A  pathway  for  thy  host  above  the  cloud, 
Guiding  their  footsteps  o'er  the  frost-work  crown 
Of  the  throned  Alps, — why  dost  thou  sleep,  unmark'd 
E'en  by  such  slight  memento  as  the  hind 
Carves  on  his  own  'coarse  tomb-stone  ? 

Bid  the  throng 

Who  pour'd  thee  incense,  as  Olympian  Jove, 
Breathing  thy  thunders  on  the  battle-field, 
Return  and  deck  thy  monument.     Those  forms, 
O'er  the  wide  valleys  of  red  slaughter  strew' d, 
From  pole  to  tropic,  and  from  zone  to  zone, 
Heed  not  the  clarion-call.     Yet,  should  they  rise, 
As  in  the  vision  that  the  prophet  saw, 
Each  dry  bone  to  its  fellow,  or  in  heaps 
Should  pile  their  pillar 'd  dust,  might  not  the  stars 
Deem  that  again  the  puny  pride  of  man 
Did  build  its  Babel-stairs,  creeping,  by  stealth, 
To  dwell  with  them  ?     But  here,  unwept,  thou  art, 
Like  some  dead  lion  in  his  thicket-lair, . 
With  neither  living  man,  nor  spectre  lone, 
To  trace  thine  epitaph. 

Invoke  the  climes 


NAPOLEON   AT   HELENA.  283 

That  served  as  playthings  in  thy  desperate  game 
Of  mad  ambition,  or  their  treasures  strew'd 
To  pay  thy  reckoning,  till  gaunt  Famine  fed 
Upon  their  vitals.     France  !  who  gave  so  free 
Thy  life-stream  to  his  cup  of  wine,  and  saw 
That  purple  vintage  shed  o'er  half  the  earth,  % 
Write  the  first  line,  if  thou  hast  blood  to  spare. 
Thou,  too,  whose  pride  adorn'd  dead  Caesar's  tomb, 
And  pour'd  high  requiem  o'er  the  tyrant  train 
Who  ruled  thee  to  thy  cost,  lend  us  thine  arts 
Of  sculpture  and  of  classic  eloquence 
To  grace  his  obsequies  at  whose  dark  frown 
Thine  ancient  spirit  quail'd;  and  to  the  list 
Of  mutilated  kings,  who  glean'd  their  meat 
'Neath  Agag's  table,  add  the  name  of  Rome. 
Turn,  Austria  !  iron-brow'd  and  stern  of  heart, 
And  on  his  monument  to  whom  thou  gav'st 
In  anger  battle,  and  in  craft  a  bride, 
Grave  Austerlitz,  and  fiercely  turn  away. 
Rouse  Prussia  from  her  trance  with  Jena's  name, 
Like  the  rein'd  war-horse  at  the  trumpet-blast, 
And  take  her  witness  to  that  fame  which  soars 
O'er  him  of  Macedon,  and  shames  the  vaunt 
Of  Scandinavia's  madman. 

From  the  shades 
Of  letter'd  ease,  0  Germany  !  come  forth 


284  NAPOLEON   AT   HELENA. 

With  pen  of  fire,  and  from  thy  troubled  scroll, 

Such  as  thou  spread'st  at  Leipsic,  gather  tints 

Of  deeper  character  than  bold  romance 

Hath  ever  imaged  in  her  wildest  dream, 

Or  history  trusted  to  her  sibyl  leaves. 

Hail,  lotus-crown'd  !  in  thy  green  childhood  fed 

By  stiff-neck' d  Pharaoh  and  the  shepherd  kings, 

Hast  thou  no  trait  of  him  who  drench' d  thy  sands 

At  Jaffa  and  Aboukir  ?  when  the  flight 

Of  rushing  souls  went  up  so  strange  and  strong 

To  the  accusing  Spirit  ? 

Glorious  isle ! 

Whose  thrice-enwreathed  chain,  Promethean  like, 
Did  bind  him  to  the  fatal  rock,  we  ask 
Thy  deep  memento  for  this  marble  tomb. 
Ho  !  fur-clad  Russia  !  with  thy  spear  of  frost, 
Or  with  thy  winter-mocking  Cossack's  lance, 
Stir  the  cold  memories  of  thy  vengeful  brain, 
And  give  the  last  line  of  our  epitaph. 

But  there  was  silence.     Not  a  sceptred  hand 
Received  the  challenge. 

From  the  misty  deep 

Rise,  island-spirits  !  like  those  sisters  three, 
Who  spin  and  cut  the  trembling  thread  of  life, 
Rise  on  your  coral  pedestals,  and  write 


NAPOLEON   AT   HELENA.  265 

That  eulogy  which  haughtier  climes  deny. 

Come,  for  ye  lull'd  him  in  your  matron  arms, 

And  cheer 'd  his  exile  with  the  name  of  king, 

And  spread  that  curtain' d  couch  which  none  disturb ; 

Come,  twine  some  bud  of  household  tenderness, 

Some  tender  leaflet,  nursed  with  nature's  tears, 

Around  this  urn.     But  Corsica,  who  rock'd 

His  cradle  at  Ajaccio,  turn'd  away; 

And  tiny  Elba  in  the  Tuscan  wave 

Plunged  her  slight  annal  with  the  haste  of  fear ; 

And  lone  St.  Helena,  heart-sick,  and  gray 

'Neath  rude  Atlantic's  scourging,  bade  the  moon, 

With  silent  finger,  point  the  traveller's  gaze 

To  an  unhonour'd  tomb. 

Then  Earth  arose, 

That  blind  old  empress,  on  her  crumbling  throne, 
And,  to  the  echo'd  question — "  Who  shall  write 
Napoleon's  epitaph?" — as  one  who  broods 
O'er  unforgiven  injuries,  answer'd — "None.'' 


286  COLUMBIA'S   SHIPS. 


COLUMBIA'S  SHIPS. 

THE  ships  from  young  Columbia's  shore, 

As  fleet  they  are,  and  free, 
As  those  from  haughtier  realms  that  boast 

Dominion  o'er  the  sea. 
As  gallantly  their  banners  float, 

As  keen  their  lightnings  fly, 
And  braver  hearts  than  there  are  found 

Beat  not  beneath  the  sky. 

White  as  the  glancing  sea-bird's  wing 

Their  swelling  sails  expand, 
Beside  the  bright  Egean  isles, 

Or  green  Formosa's  strand, 
Or  where  the  sparse  Norwegian  pine 

A  sudden  summer  shares, 
Or  Terra  del  Fuego's  torch 

Amid  the  tempest  glares. 


COLUMBIA'S    SHIPS.  287 

Unmoved  their  trackless  course  they  hold 

Though  vengeful  Boreas  roars, 
And  make  their  port  on  stranger-coasts 

Or  undiscover'd  shores. 
Rude  people  of  a  foreign  speech 

Have  learn' d  their  cheering  cry, 
"Land  ho  !— Aloft !"— and  "Bear-a-hand  !" 

With  the  ready  tar's  reply. 

From  zone  to  zone — from  pole  to  pole, 

Where'er  in  swift  career 
The  venturous  keel  a  path  explores, 

Our  Yankee  sailors  steer. 
The  white  bear,  on  his  field  of  ice, 

Hath  seen  their  signals  toss'd ; 
And  the  great  whale,  old  Ocean's  king, 

Doth  know  them  to  his  cost. 

The  spices  from  the  Indian  isles, 

The  plant  of  China's  care, 
The  cane's  sweet  blood  from  tropic  climes 

Their  merchant-vessels  bear. 
Wherever  Commerce  points  his  wand, 

They  mount  the  crested  waves, 
And  link  together  every  sea 

The  rolling  globe  that  laves. 


288  COLUMBIA'S    SHIPS. 

Still  nearest  to  the  Antarctic  gate 

Our  daring  seamen  press, 
Where  storm-wrapp'd  Nature  thought  to  dwell 

In  hermit  loneliness ; 
"Whose  masts  are  those,  so  white  with  frost, 

Where  fearful  icebergs  shine?" 
My  country  from  her  watch-tower  look'd, 

And  answer 'd — "  They  are  mine !" 

Columbia's  ships !     With  dauntless  prow 

The  tossing  deep  they  tread ; 
The  pirates  of  the  Libyan  sands 

Have  felt  their  prowess  dread : 
And  the  British  lion's  lordly  mane 

Their  victor  might  confess' d, 
For  well  their  nation's  faith  and  pride 

They  guard  on  Ocean's  breast. 

When  strong  Oppression  fiercely  frowns, 

Her  eagle  rears  his  crest, 
And  means  no  bird  of  air  shall  pluck 

His  pinions  or  his  breast ; 
And  brighter  on  the  threatening  cloud 

Gleam  out  her  stars  of  gold. 
Huzza  !  for  young  Columbia's  ships, 

And  for  her  seamen  bold. 


ALPINE   FLOWERS.  289 


ALPINE  FLOWERS. 

MEEK  dwellers  mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs, 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  ? 

Did  some  white-wing'd  messenger, 
On  mercy's  mission,  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows, 
And,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  ? 

Tree  nor  shrub 

Dare  the  drear  atmosphere ;  no  polar-pine 
Uplifts  a  veteran  front;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribb'd  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  steadfast  eye  to  Him, 
Who  bids  ye  bloom  unblanch'd  amid  the  realm 
Of  desolation. 

Man  who,  panting,  toils 

O'er  slippery  steeps,  or  treads  the  dizzy  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  from  whence  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity, — looks  shuddering  up 


290  ALPINE   FLOWERS. 

And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness, 
Fearless  yet  frail;  'and,  clasping  his  chill  hands, 
Blesses  your  penciled  beauty.     Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain-summits  rushing  toward  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  wrapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  ye,  drooping,  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost-wing' d  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


THE   TRIAL   OF    THE    DEAD.  291 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  DEAD. 


The  solemn  mockery  of  the  trial  of  the  dead,  which  was  first  permitted  in  Scotland 
about  the  fourteenth  century,  was  exhibited  in  the  case  of  George  Gordon,  Earl  of 
Huntley,  in  the  year  1664.  After  this  judicial  process,  the  body  was  removed  from  Holy- 
rood,  and  interred  at  Elgin  Cathedral,  the  burial-place  of  his  family. 


THE  spears  at  Corrichie  were  bright, 
Where,  with  a  stern  command, 

The  Earl  of  Huntley  ranged  his  host 
Upon  their  native  strand. 

From  many  a  Highland  strath  and  glen 
They  at  his  summons  came, 

A  stalwart  band  of  fearless  men, 
Who  counted  war  a  game. 

Then,  from  Edina's  royal  court 
Fierce  Murray  northward  sped, 

And  rush'd  his  envied  foe  to  meet 
In  battle  sharp  and  dread. 


292  THE   TRIAL   OF   THE   DEAD. 

They  met,  they  closed,  they  struggled  sore, 
Like  waves  when  tempests  blow, 

The  slogan-music  high  in  air, 
The  sound  of  groans  below. 

They  broke,  they  wheel' d,  they  charged  again, 
Till  on  the  ensanguined  ground 

The  noble  Gordon  lifeless  lay, 
Transpierced  with  many  a  wound. 

Long  from  her  tower  his  Lady  look'd : 

"I  see  a  dusky  cloud, 
And  there,  behold !  comes  floating  high 

Earl  Huntley's  banner  proud." 

Then,  deep  she  sigh'd,  for  rising  mist 

Involved  her  aching  sight ; 
'Twas  but  an  autumn-bough  that  mock'd 

Her  chieftain's  pennon  bright. 

His  mother  by  the  ingle  sate, 

Her  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  murmur 'd  low  in  hollow  tone, 

"He'll  ne'er  come  back  to  thee." 


THE   TRIAL  OF  THE  DEAD.  293 

"  Hist,  Lady,  mother  !  hear  I  not 

Steed-tramp  and  pibroch-roar  ? 
As  when  the  victor-surf  doth  tread 

Upon  a  rocky  shore?" 

Not  toward  the  loop-hole  raised  her  head 

That  woman  wise  and  hoar, 
But  whisper' d  in  her  troubled  soul, 

"Thy  Lord  returns  no  more  !" 

"A  funeral  march  is  in  my  ear, 

A  scatter'd  host  I  see," 
And,  straining  wild,  her  sunken  eye 

Gazed  out  on  vacancy. 

Back  to  their  homes,  the  Gordon  clan 

Stole  with  despairing  tread, 
While  to  the  vaults  of  Holyrood 

Was  borne  their  chieftain  dead. 

Exulting  foemen  bore  him  there, 

While  lawless  vassals  jeer'd, 
Nor  spared  to  mock  the  haughty  brow 

Whose  living  frown  they  fear'd. 


294  THE   TRIAL   OF   THE  DEAD. 

No  earth  upon  his  corse  they  strew' d, 

At  no  rich  shrine  inurn'd, 
But  heavenward,  as  the  warrior  fell, 

His  noble  forehead  turn'd. 

Months  fled  ;  and  while,  from  castled  height 

To  cot  in  lowly  dell, 
O'er  Corrichie's  disastrous  day 

The  tears  of  Scotland  fell, 

Behold,  a  high  and  solemn  court 
With  feudal  pomp  was  graced, 

And  at  the  bar,  in  princely  robes, 
A  muffled  chieftain  placed. 

No  glance  his  veiled  face  might  scan, 
Though  throngs  beside  him  prest ; 

The  Gordon  plume  his  brow  adorn' d, 
Its  tartan  wrapp'd  his  breast. 

"  Lord  George  of  Gordon,  Huntley's  earl ! 

High-treason  taints  thy  name ; 
For  God,  and  for  thy  country's  cause, 

Defend  thine  ancient  fame ; 


THE    TRIAL   OF   THE  DEAD.  295 

"  Make  oath  upon  thine  honour's  seal, 

Heaven's  truth  unblenchjng  tell!" 
No  lip  he  moved,  no  hand  he  raised, 

And  dire  that  silence  fell.  - 

No  word  he  spake,  though  thrice  adjured ; 

Then  came  the  sentence  drear  :* 
"Foul  traitor  to  thy  queen  and  realm, 

Our  laws  denounce  thee  here." 

They  stripp'd  him  of  his  cloak  of  state, 

They  hared  his  helmed  head, 
Though  the  pale  judges  inly  quaked 

Before  the  ghastly  dead. 

Light  thing  to  him,  that  earthly  doom 

Or  man's  avenging  rod, 
.Who,  in  the  land  of  souls,  doth  bide 

The  audit  of  his  God. 

Before  his  face  the  crowd  drew  back, 

As  from  sepulchral  gloom, 
And  sternest  veterans  shrank  to  breathe 

The  vapour  of  the  tomb. 


296 


THE  TRIAL   OF   THE   DEAD. 


And  now,  this  mockery  of  the  dead 

With  hateful  pageant  o'er, 
They  yield  him  to  his  waiting  friends 

Who  throng  the  palace  door. 

And  on  their  sad  procession  press'd, 

Unresting  day  and  night, 
To  where  mid  Elgin's  towers  they  mark 

The  fair  cathedral's  height. 

And  there,  by  kindred  tears  bedew'd, 

Beneath  its  hallow'd  shade, 
With  midnight  torch  and  chanted  dirge, 

Their  fallen  chief  they  laid, 

Fast  by  king  Duncan's  mouldering  dust, 

Whose  locks  of  silver  hue 
Were  stain' d,  as  Avon's  swan  hath  sung, 

With  murder's  bloody  dew. 


So,  rest  thou  here,  thou  Scottish  earl 
Of  ancient  fame  and  power, 

No  more  a  valiant  host  to  guide 
In  battle's  stormy  hour. 


THE   TRIAL    OF    THE   DEAD. 


297 


Yea,  rest  thee  here,  thou  Scottish  earl, 

Until  that  day  of  dread, 
"Which  to  eternity  consigns 

The  trial  of  the  dead. 


298  BREAD    IN    THE  WILDERNESS. 


BREAD  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

A  VOICE  amid  the  desert. 

Not  of  him 

Who,  in  rough  garments  clad,  and  locust-fed, 
Cried  to  the  sinful  multitude,  and  claim' d 
Fruits  of  repentance,  with  the  lifted  scourge 
Of  terror  and  reproof.     A  milder  guide, 
With  gentler  tones,  doth  teach  the  listening  throng. 
Benignant  pity  moved  him  as  he  saw 
The  shepherdless  and  poor.     He  knew  to  touch 
The  springs  of  every  nature.     The  high  lore 
Of  heaven  he  humbled  to  the  simplest  child, 
And  in  the  guise  of  parable  allured 
The  sluggish  mind  to  follow  truth,  and  live. 

They  whom  the  thunders  of  the  law  had  stunn'd 
Woke  to  the  gospel's  melody  with  tears ; 
And  the  glad  Jewish  mother  held  her  babe 
High  in  her  arms,  that  its  young  eye  might  greet 
Jesus  of  Nazareth. 


BREAD   IN   THE   WILDERNESS.  299 

It  was  so  still, 

Though  thousands  cluster'd  there,  that  not  a  sound 
Brake  the  strong  spell  of  eloquence  which  held 
The  wilderness  in  chains,  save  now  and  then, 
As  the  gale  freshen'd,  came  the  murmur'd  speech 
Of  distant  billows,  chafing  with  the  shores 
Of  the  Tiberian  sea. 

Day  wore  apace, 

Noon  hasted,  and  the  lengthening  shadows  brought 
The  unexpected  eve.     They  linger'd  still, 
Eyes  fix'd,  and  lips  apart;  the  very  breath 
Constrain' d,  lest  some  escaping  sigh  might  break 
The  tide  of  knowledge,  sweeping  o'er  their  souls 
Like  a  strange,  raptured  dream.     They  heeded  not 
The  spent  sun  closing  at  the  curtain' d  west 
His  burning  journey.     What  was  time  to  them, 
Who  heard,  entranced,  the  eternal  Word  of  Life  ? 

But  the  weak  flesh  grew  weary.     Hunger  came, 
Sharpening  each  feature,  and  to  faintness  drain'd 
Life's  vigorous  fount.     The  holy  Saviour  felt 
Compassion  for  them.     His  disciples  press, 
Care-stricken,  to  his  side:  "Where  shall  we  find 
Bread  in  this  desert?" 

Then,  with  lifted  eye, 
He  bless'd,  and  brake  the  slender  store  of  food, 


300  BREAD   IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 

And  fed  the  famish'd  thousands.     Wondering  awe 
With  renovated  strength  inspired  their  souls, 
As,  gazing  on  the  miracle,  they  mark'd 
The  gather 'd  fragments  of  their  feast,  and  heard 
Such  heavenly  words  as  lip  of  mortal  man 
Had  never  utter'd. 

Thou,  whose  pitying  heart 
Yearn'd  o'er  the  countless  miseries  of  those 
Whom  thou  didst  die  to  save,  touch  thou  our  souls 
With  the  same  spirit  of  untiring  love. 
Divine  Redeemer !  may  our  fellow-man, 
Howe'er  by  rank  or  circumstance  disjoin'd, 
Be  as  a  brother  in  his  hour  of  need. 


A   DAISY   FROM    RUNIMEDE.  301 


ON  TRANSPLANTING  A  DAISY  FROM 
RUNIMEDE. 

FROM  the  green  turf  of  Runimede 

A  daisy's  root  I  drew, 
Amid  whose  moisten' d  crown  of  leaves 

A  healthful  bud  crept  through, 
And  whisper 'd  in  its  infant  ear 

That  it  might  cross  the  sea, 
A  cherish' d  emigrant,  and  find 

A  western  home  with  me. 

Methought  it  shrank  at  first,  and  paled, 

But  when,  on  ocean's  tide, 
Strong  waves  and  mighty  icebergs  frown' d, 

And  manly  courage  died, 
It  calmly  raised  a  crested  head 

And  smiled  amid  the  storm, 
As  if  old  Magna  Charta's  soul 

Inspired  its  fragile  form. 


302  A   DAISY   FROM   RUNIMEDE. 

So,  where  within  my  garden  plat 

I  sow  the  choicest  seed, 
Amid  my  favorite  shrubs  I  placed 

The  plant  from  Runimede ; 
And  know  not  why  it  may  not  draw 

Sweet  nutriment  the  same, 
As  when  within  that  clime  from  whence 

Our  gallant  fathers  came. 

There's  liberty  enough  for  all, 

If  they  but  use  it  well ; 
And  Magna  Charta's  spirit  burns 

In  e'en  the  lowliest  cell : 
And  the  simplest  daisy  may  unfold, 

From  scorn  and  danger  freed ; 
So,  make  yourself  at  home,  my  friend, 

My  flower  of  Runimede. 


THE   GIFT   OF   APOLLO.  303 


THE  GIFT  OF  APOLLO. 


A  legend  of  ancient  mythology  relates,  that  the  inhabitants  of  Methymnia,  on  the 
island  of  Lesbos,  received  from  Apollo  a  genius  for  music  and  poetry,  as  a  mark  of  his 
gratitude  for  having  extended  the  rites  of  burial  to  the  severed  head  of  Orpheus. 


WHEN  Orpheus'  limbs,  by  Thracian  madness  torn, 
Down  the  cold  Hebrus'  sounding  floods  were  borne, 
The  blood-stain'd  lips  in  tuneful  measures  sigh'd, 
And  murmur 'd  music  charm' d  the  listening  tide. 

Thus  roam'd  the  head,  complaining  and  distrest, 
Till  Lesbian  bands  beheld  the  approaching  guest, 
And,  with  indignant  sorrow,  shuddering  bore 
The  mangled  victim  to  their  verdant  shore. 
With  fragrant  streams  the  quivering  brows  they  lave, 
And  cleanse  the  tresses  from  the  briny  wave, 
Spread  a  soft  pillow  in  the  earth's  green  breast, 
And  with  low  dirges  lull  to  dreamless  rest. 
Then  from  the  tossing  surge  his  lyre  they  gain, 
A  treasured  trophy  for  Apollo's  fane, 


304  THE   GIFT   OF    APOLLO. 

Round  its  fair  frame  funereal  garlands  bind, 
And  mourn  its  lord,  to  silent  dust  consign'd. 

Hark  ! — while  its  chords  the  gales  of  evening  sweep, 
Soft  tones  awake,  and  mystic  voices  weep. 
"Eurydice  !"  in  trembling  love  they  sigh; 
"Eurydice  !"  the  long-drawn  aisles  reply, 
And  through  the  temple  steals,  in  echoes  low, 
The  mournful  sweetness  of  remember'd  wo. 

Methymnia's  sons,  with  new-felt  warmth  inspired, 
By  all  Apollo's  soul  of  song  were  fired, 
Pour'd  their  rich  offerings  round  his  golden  shrine, 
Caught  the  rapt  spirit,  and  the  strain  divine ; 
For  he  with  smiles  and  priceless  gifts  repaid 
The  men  whose  pious  rites  appeased  his  favourite's  shade. 


BENEVOLENCE.  305 


BENEVOLENCE. 

The  silver  is  mine,  and  the  gold  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts." — HAGGAI  ii.  8. 

WHOSE  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the  mine  ? 
And  whose  the  silver  ?     Are  they  not  the  Lord's  ? 
And  lo  !  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
And  the  broad  earth  with  all  her  gushing  springs, 
Are  they  not  His  who  made  them  ? 

Ye  who  hold 

Slight  tenantry  therein,  and  call  your  lands 
By  your  own  names,  and  lock  your  gather 'd  gold 
From 'him  who  in  his  bleeding  Saviour's  name 
Doth  ask  a  part,  whose  shall  those  riches  be 
When,  like  the  grass-blade  from  the  autumn-frost, 
You  fall  away  ? 

Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shall  enact 
Glad  mastership,  and  revel  where  you  toil'd 
Sleepless  and  stern.     Strange  faces  are  they  all. 


306  BENEVOLENCE. 


Oh,  man  !  whose  wrinkling  labour  is  for  heirs 
Thou  knowest  not  who, — thou  in  thy  mouldering  bed, 
Unkenn'd,  unchronicled  of  them,  shalt  sleep ; 
Nor  will  they  thank  thee  that  thou  didst  bereave 
Thy  soul  of  good  for  them. 

Now,  thou  mayst  give 
The  famish'd  food,  the  prisoner  liberty, 
Light  to  the  darken'd  mind,  to  the  lost  soul 
A  place  in  heaven.     Take  thou  the  privilege 
With  solemn  gratitude.     Speck  as  thou  art 
Upon  earth's  surface,  gloriously  exult 
To  be  co-worker  with  the  King  of  kings. 


BERNARDINE   DU   BORN.  307 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 

KING  HENRY  sat  upon  his  throne, 

And,  full  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
His  eye  a  recreant  knight  survey 'd, 

Sir  Bernardine  du  Born. 
While  he  that  haughty  glance  return'd, 

Like  lion  in  his  lair, 
And  loftily  his  unchanged  brow 

Gleam' d  through  his  crisped  hair. 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  realm, 

Lord  of  a  lawless  band, 
The  bold  in  speech,  the  fierce  in  broil, 

The  troubler  of  our  land ; 
Thy  castles  and  thy  rebel  towers 

Are  forfeit  to  the  crown, 
And  thou  beneath  the  Norman  axe 

Shalt  end  thy  base  renown. 


308  BERNARDINE   DU    BORN. 

"Deign'st  thou  no  word  to  bar  thy  doom, 

Thou  with  strange  madness  fired  ? 
Hath  reason  quite  forsook  thy  breast  ?" 

Plantagenet  inquired. 
Sir  Bernard  turn'd  him  toward  the  king ; 

He  blench'd  not  in  his  pride : 

"  My  reason  fail'd,  my  gracious  liege, 

The  year  Prince  Henry  died." 

Quick  at  that  name  a  cloud  of  wo 

Pass'd  o'er  the  monarch's  brow; 
Touch' d  was  that  thrilling  cord  of  love 

At  which  the  mightiest  bow. 
Again  swept  back  the  tide  of  years, 

Again  his  first-born  moved, 
The  fair,  the  graceful,  the  sublime, 

The  erring,  yet  beloved. 

And  ever,  cherish' d  by  his  side, 

One  chosen  friend  was  near, 
To  share  in  boyhood's  ardent  sport 

Or  youth's  untamed  career. 
With  him  the  merry  chase  he  sought 

Beneath  the  dewy  morn, 
With  him  in  knightly  tourney  rode       ' 

This  Bernardine  du  Born. 


BERNARD1NE    DU   BORN. 


309 


Then  in  the  mourning  father's  soul 

Each  trace  of  ire  grew  dim, 
And  what  his  buried  idol  loved 

Seem'd  cleansed  of  guilt  to  him ; 
And  faintly  through  his  tears  he  spake. 

"God  send  his  grace  to  thee, 
And  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  dead, 

Go  forth,  unscathed  and  free." 


310  MORN   AND   EVEN. 


MORN  AND  EVEN. 

"  Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  of  the  evening  to  rejoice." — David. 

THE  outgoings  of  sweet  morn  !     See  the  light  mist, 

That  spreads  its  white  wing  to  the  heavens  away ; 
See  the  fresh  blossoms  by  the  blithe  bee  kiss'd; 

The  hilltop  kindling  'neath  the  king  of  day ; 

Spire  after  spire,  that  drinks  the  genial  ray ; 
The  rocks,  that  in  their  rifted  holds  abide, 

And  darkly  frown,  with  heads  for  ever  gray ; 
While  the  clear  stream  gleams  out  in  trembling  pride 
Through  its  transparent  veil,  like  a  fair,  timid  bride. 

Morn  to  the  Earth !  the  cup  of  life  she  quail's, 

Arid  countless  voices  hail  the  sparkling  draught : 
Methinks  the  lamb  beside  its  mother  laughs ; 

Up  soars  the  lark,  with  song  his  Maker  taught ; 

Sweet  lisping  murmurs  wrap  the  infant's  thought, 
As  gladly  from  the  cottage  door  it  creeps ; 

The  wild  rill  glitters  through  the  lonely  grot ; 
While  the  hoarse  sea,  whose  anthem  never  sleeps, 
Reverberates  God's  praise  through  all  its  sounding  deeps. 


MORN  AND   EVEN.  311 


Morn  to  the  watcher  by  the  sick  man's  bed ! 

The  slow,  slow  clock  tells  out  the  welcome  hour, 
And  to  the  air  he  springs  with  buoyant  tread; 

The  poor  caged  bird  sings  sweet  in  lady's  bower ; 

The  farmer,  watchful  lest  the  skies  may  lower, 
Thrusts  his  sharp  sickle  mid  the  bearded  grain ; 

While  sportive  voices,  strong  in  childhood's  power, 
With  merry  music  wake  the  village  plain, 
And  toil  comes  forth  refresh'd,  and  age  is  young  agaiD 

The  outgoings  of  mild  eve  !  the  folded  rose ; 

Soft  slumber  settling  on  the  lily's  bell ; 
The  solemn  forest  lull'd  to  deep  repose, 

While  restless  winds  no  more  its  murmurs  swell; 

The  stars  emerging  from  their  secret  cell, 
A  silent  night-watch  o'er  the  world  to  keep ; 

And  then  the  queenly  moon,  attended  well, 

Who  o'er  the  mighty  arch  of  heaven  doth  sweep, 

Speaking  of  Nature's  King  in  language  still  and  deep 

The  charms  of  eve  how  sweet,  he  best  can  say, 
Who,  sickening  at  the  city's  dust  and  noise, 

And  selfish  arts  that  Mammon's  votaries  sway, 
Turns  to  his  home  to  taste  its  simple  joys; 
There,  climbing  on  his  knee,  his  ruddy  boys 

Wake  that  warm  thrill  that  every  care  repays; 


312  MORN   AND    EVEN. 

And  fondly  hasting  from  her  baby-toys, 
His  prattling  daughter  seeks  a  father's  gaze, 
And  gives  that  tender  smile  which  o'er  his  slumber  plays. 

She,  too,  who  wins  her  bread  by  toil  severe, 

And  from  her  home  at  early  morn  must  go 
To  earn  the  bread  that  dries  her  children's  tear, 

How  hails  her  heart  the  sun  declining  low ! 

Love  nerves  the  foot  that  else  were  sad  and  slow, 
And  when  afar  her  lowly  roof  she  spies, 

Forgot  is  all  her  lot  of  scorn  and  wo, 
A  mother's  rapture  kindling  in  her  eyes, 
While  to  her  wearied  arms  the  eager  nursling  flies. 

And  see,  from  labour  loosed,  the  drooping  team, 

Unharness'd,  hasting  to  their  fragrant  food ; 
While,  fearful  of  the  hawk's  marauding  scream, 

The  broad-wing'd  mother  folds  her  helpless  brood; 

In  the  cool  chambers  of  the  teeming  flood 
The  scaly  monsters  check  their  boisterous  play ; 

And,  closely  curtain'd  mid  the  quiet  wood, 
The  slumbering  minstrels  hush  their  warbling  lay, 
While  man's  sweet  hymn  of  praise  doth  close  the  summer- 
day. 


THE    EMIGRANT   MOTHER.  313 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

FROM  my  own  native  clime,  I  took  my  way 
Across  the  foaming  deep.     My  husband  slept 
In  his  new  grave,  and  poverty  had  stripp'd 
Our  lonely  cottage.     Letters  o'er  the  wave, 
From  brother  and  from  sister,  bade  me  come 
To  this  New  World,  where  there  is  bread  for  all. 
So,  with  my  heavy,  widow'd  heart  I  went, 
My  only  babe  and  I. 

Coarse,  curious  eyes 
Look'd  searchingly  upon  me,  as  I  sat 
In  the  throng' d  steerage,  with  my  sick,  sick  soul. 
But  at  each  jeering  word,  I  bow'd  my  head 
Down  o'er  my  helpless  child,  and  was  content, 
For  he  was  all  my  world.  ^ 

Storms  rock'd  the  bark, 

And  haggard  fear  sprang  up,  with  oaths  and  cries. 
Yet  wondrous  courage  nerved  me.     For  to  die 
With  that  fair,  loving  creature  in  my  arms, 
Seem'd  more  than  life  without  him.     If  a  shade 


314  THE   EMIGRANT   MOTHER. 

Of  weariness  or  trouble  mark'd  my  brow, 
He  look'd  upon  me  with,  his  father's  eyes, 
And  I  was  comforted. 

But  sickness  came, 

Close  air,  and  scanty  food.     Darkly  they  press'd 
On  feeble  infancy,  and  oft  I  heard, 
As  mournful  twilight  settled  o'er  the  sea, 
The  frequent  plunge,  and  the  wild  mother's  shriek, 
When  her  lost  darling  to  the  depths  went  down. 
Then  came  the  terror.     To  my  heaving  breast 
I  closer  clasp' d  the  child,  and  all  my  strength 
Went  forth  in  one  continued  sigh  to  God. 
Scarcely  I  slept,  lest  the  dire  pestilence 
Should  smite  him  unawares.     E'en  when  he  lay 
In  peaceful  dreams,  the  smile  upon  his  cheek, 
I  trembled,  lest  the  dark- wing' d  angel  breathed 
Insidious  whispers,  luring  him  away. 

It  came  at  last.     That  dreadful  sickness  came, 
The  fever — short  and  mortal.     Midnight's  pall 
Spread  o'er  the  waters,  when  his  last  faint  breath 
Moisten'd  my  cheek.     Deep  in  my  breaking  heart 
I  shut  the  mother's  cry. 

One  mighty  fear 

Absorb'd  me,  lest  his  cherish'd  form  should  feed 
The  dire  sea-monsters,  nor  beneath  the  sods 


THE   EMIGRANT   MOTHER.  315 

Of  the  green,  quiet,  blessed  earth,  await 
The  resurrection. 

So,  I  shuddering  press'd 
The  body  closer,  though  its  deadly  cold 
Froze  through  my  soul. 

To  those  around,  I  said, 

"Disturb  him  not — he  sleepeth."     Then  I  sang 
And  rock'd  him  tenderly,  as  though  he  woke 
In  fretfulness,  or  felt  the  sting  of  pain. 
My  poor,  dead  baby  !     Terrible  to  me 
Such  falsehood  seem'd.     But  yet  the  appalling  dread 
Lest  the  fierce,  scaly  monsters  of  the  sea 
Should  wind  around  him  with  their  gorging  jaws, 
O'ermaster'd  me. 

Nights  fled,  and  mornings  dawn'd, 
And  still  my  chill  arms  clasp'd  immovably 
The  shrivelling  form.     They  told  me  he  was  dead, 
And  bade  me  give  my  beautiful  to  them, 
For  burial  in  the  deep.     With  outstretch' d  hands 
They  stood  demanding  him,  until  the  light 
Fled  from  my  swimming  eyes. 

But  when  I  woke 

From  the  long  trance,  that  icy  burden  lay 
No  longer  on  my  bosom.     Pitying  words 
The  captain  spake — "Look  at  yon  little  boat 
Lash'd  to  our  stern.     There,  in  his  coffin,  rests 


316  THE    EMIGRANT    MOTHER. 

The  body  of  thy  son.     If  in  three  days 
We  reach  the  land,  he  shall  be  buried  there 
As  thou  desirest." 

There,  from  breaking  morn, 
My  eyes  were  fix'd ;  and  when  the  darkness  came, 
By  the  red  binnacle's  uncertain  light 
I  watch'd  that  floating  speck  amid  the  waves, 
And  pray'd  for  land. 

As  thus  I  kept  my  watch, 
Like  desolate  Rizpah,  mournful  visions  came 
Of  my  forsaken  cottage ;  while  the  spring 
Of  gushing  crystal,  where  'neath  bowering  trees 
We  drew  our  water,  gurgled  in  my  ear 
To  mock  me  with  its  memories  of  joy. 
My  throat  was  dry  with  anguish,  and  when  voice 
Fail'd  me  to  pray  for  land,  I  lifted  up 
That  silent,  naked  thought,  which  finds  the  Throne 
Sooner  than  pomp  of  words. 

With  fiery  face 

And  eager  foot,  the  third  dread  morning  rose 
Out  of  the  misty  deep,  and  coldly  rang 
The  death-knell  of  my  hope. 

As  o'er  the  stern 

I  gazed  with  dim  eye  on  the  flashing  brine, 
Methought  its  depths  were  open'd,  and  I  saw 
Creatures  most  vile,  that  o'er  the  bottom  crept, 


THE    EMIGRANT   MOTHER.  317 

Lizards  and  slimy  serpents,  hideous  forms 
And  shapes,  for  which  man's  language  hath  no  name; 
While  to  the  surface  rose  the  monster  shark, 
Intent  to  seize  his  prey. 

Convulsive  shrieks, 

Long  pent  within  my  bleeding  heart,  burst  forth. 
But  from  the  watcher  at  the  mast  there  came 
A  shout  of  "Land!"  and  on  the  horizon's  edge 
Gleam' d  a  faint  streak,  like  the  white  seraph's  wing. 
Oh  !  blessed  land  !     We  near'd  it,  and  my  breath 
Was  one  continued  gasp — Oh!  blessed  land! 

A  boat  was  launch'd.     With  flashing  oar  it  reach'd 
A  lonely  isle.     Bent  o'er. the  vessel's  side, 
I  saw  them  dig  a  narrow  grave,  and  lay 
In  the  cool  bosom  of  the  quiet  earth 
The  little  body  that  was  mine  no  more. 
Nor  wept  I:  for  an  angel  said  to  me, 
"God's  will !  God's  will !  and  thy  requited  prayer 
Remember !" 

To  my  hand  a  scroll  they  brought, 
Bearing  the  name  of  that  deserted  strand, 
And  record  of  the  day  in  which  they  laid 
My  treasure  there.     They  might  have  spared  that  toil : 
A  mother's  unforgetful  love  needs  not 
Record  or  date. 


318  THE    EMIGRANT   MOTHEK. 

The  ship  held  on  her  course 
To  greener  shores.     There  came  an  exile's  pain, 
Beneath  a  foreign  sky. 

Yet  'twere  a  sin 

To  mourn  with  bitterness  the  boy  whose  smile 
Cheers  me  no  more,  since  the  sea  had  him  not, 
Nor  the  sea-monsters. 

Endless  praise  to  Him, 

Who  did  not  scorn  the  poor,  weak  woman's  sigh 
Of  desolate  wo. 

No  monument  is  thine, 

Oh  babe  !  that  'neath  yon  sterile  sands  dost  sleep, 
Save  the  strong  sculpture  in  a  mother's  heart ; 
And  by  those  traces  will  she  know  thee  well 
When  the  graves  open,  and  before  God's  throne 
Both,  small  and  great  are  gather 'd. 


HEALING   AT    SUNSET.  319 


HEALING  AT  SUNSET. 


'  At  even,  when  the  sun  did  set,  they  brought  unto  him  all  that  were  diseased." 
MARK  i.  32. 


JUDEA'S  summer-day  went  down, 
And  lo !  from  vale  and  plain, 

Around  the  heavenly  Healer  throng' d 
A  sick  and  sorrowing  train. 

The  pallid  brow,  the  hectic  cheek, 

The  cripple  bent  with  care, 
And  he  whose  soul  dark  demons  lash'd 

To  foaming  rage,  were  there. 

He  raised  his  hand,  the  lame  man  leap'd, 

The  blind  forgot  his  wo, 
And  with  a  startling  rapture  gazed 

On  Nature's  glorious  show. 

Up  from  his  bed  of  misery  rose 

The  paralytic  pale, 
While  the  loathed  leper  dared  once  more 

His  fellow-man  to  hail. 


320  HEALING   AT   SUNSET. 

The  lunatic's  illumined  brow, 
With  smiles  of  love  o'erspread, 

Assured  the  kindred  hearts  that  long 
Had  trembled  at  his  tread. 

The  mother  to  her  idiot-boy 
The  name  of  Jesus  taught, 

Who  thus  with  sudden  touch  had  fired 
The  chaos  of  his  thought. 

Yes,  all  that  sad,  imploring  train 
He  heal'd  ere  evening  fell, 

And  speechless  joy  was  born  that  night 
In  many  a  lonely  cell. 

Ere  evening  fell!     Oh  ye,  who  find 

The  chills  of  age  descend, 
And  with  the  lustre  of  your  locks 

The  almond-blossom  blend ; 

Haste,  ere  the  darkening  shades  of  night 
Have  every  hope  bereaved, 

Nor  leave  the  safety  of  the  soul 
Unstudied,  unachieved. 


DEATH    OF    AN   INFANT.  321 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT  * 

DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polish' d  brow, 
And  dash'd  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
O'er  cheek  and  lip.     He  touch' d  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded. 

Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wistful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste,  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
For  ever. 

There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound, 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence. 


*  This  little  poem  has  been  inserted,  by  mistake,  in  one  of  the  American  editions  of 
the  late  Mrs.  Hemans.  Though  this  is  accounted  by  the  real  author  as  an  honor,  it  is 
still  proper  to  state,  that  it  was  originally  composed  at  Hartford,  in  the  winter  of  1824; 
and  comprised  in  a  volume  of  poems,  published  in  Boston,  by  S.  G.  Goodrich,  Esq.,  in  1827 
Should  other  testimony  be  necessary,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hemans, 
to  a  friend  in  this  country,  pointing  out  some  poems  in  that  volume  which  pleased  her, 
designated,  among  others,  this  "  Death  of  an  Infant." 


322  DEATH   OF   AN   INFANT. 

But  there  beam'd  a  smile, 
So  fix'd,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow. 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  gignet-ring  of  heaven. 


FILIAL  PIETY   OF   DAVID.  333 


FILIAL  PIETY  OF  DAVID. 

ADULLAM'S  sheltering  cavern  bent 

O'er  many  an  exile's  head, 
Who  from  the  tyrant  sway  of  Saul 

In  discontent  had  fled ; 
And  he,  the  leader  of  that  band, 

Came  forth  in  sadden' d  thought, 
And  to  a  foreign  monarch's  court 

His  suit  a  suppliant  brought : 

"  Oh,  King  of  Moab  !"  bowing  down 

With  trembling  lip  he  said 
Who  oft  to  victory's  crimson  field 

Had  Israel's  thousands  led, 
"  I  pray  thee,  let  mine  aged  sire, 

And  she  beside  whose  knee 
My  earliest,  lisping  prayer  was  learn'd, 
In  safety  dwell  with  thee. 


324  FILIAL   PIETY    OF    DAVID. 

"  Lest,  while  the  adverse  torrent's  force 

With  struggling  breast  I  stem, 
My  hands  grow  weak,  my  spirits  faint, 

In  anxious  care  for  them ; 
For  with  an  outlaw's  ceaseless  pain, 

I  wander  to  and  fro, 
And  wait  Jehovah's  righteous  will 

More  perfectly  to  know." 

Then  forth  to  Moab's  pitying  prince 

His  aged  sire  he  led, 
The  cavern  dampness  on  the  locks 

That  silver'd  o'er  his  head ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  vigorous  arm, 

A  wrinkled  woman  came, 
The  mother  of  the  many  sons 

Who  honour'd  Jesse's  name. 

The  youngest  and  the  dearest  one 

Now  woke  her  parting  tear, 
And  sorrow  shook  his  manly  breast 

That  ne'er  had  quail' d  with  fear ; 
While,  drawing  near  the  monarch's  side, 

In  low  and  earnest  tone 
He  press'd  upon  his  soften'd  heart 

The  treasures  of  his  own. 


FILIAL   PIETY   OF   DAVID.  325 

Low  kneeling  at  his  parent's  side, 

That  blessing  he  besought, 
Which  ever  in  his  childish  years 

Had  calm'd  each  troubled  thought ; 
While  they  with  fond  and  feeble  hand 

His  clustering  curls  among, 
Jehovah's  majesty  and  might 

Invoked  with  faltering  tongue. 

With  tearful  thanks  to  Moab's  king, 

The  exile  left  the  place, 
For  filial  duty  well  discharged 

Shed  sunshine  o'er  his  face ; 
And  sweet  as  when  on  Bethlehem's  vales 

He  fed  his  fleecy  flock, 
The  dew  of  holy  song  distill' d 

Like  honey  from  the  rock. 

"  God  is  my  light !     Why  should  I  fear, 

Though  earth  be  dark  with  shade  ? 
God  is  the  portion  of  my  soul, 

Why  should  I  be  afraid? 
Unless  his  arm  had  been  my  stay 

When  snares  were  round  me  spread, 
My  strength  had  fainted  and  gone  down 

To  silence  and  the  dead. 


326  FILIAL   PIETY   OF  DAVID. 

"  Father  and  mother,  dear  and  true 

The  homeless  one  forsake, 
While  like  the  hunted  deer,  my  course 

From  cliff  to  cliff  I  take. 
Though  kings  against  my  life  conspire, 

And  hosts  in  hate  array'd, 
God  is  the  portion  of  my  soul ; 

Why  should  I  be  afraid  ?" 


THE   IVY.  327 


THE  IYY. 

•  BEAUTIFUL  plant,  clasping  the  ruin'd  tower 
That  Time  hath  wreck' d,  and  venturing  fearless  up 
Into  the  frosty  sky  !  hast  thou  a  heart 
For  constant  friendship,  that  thou  thus  dost  dare 
Peril,  and  storm,  and  winter's  tyranny, 
With  changeless  brow? 

The  lonely  shaft  that  falls 
From  its  high  place,  thou  in  thy  helpful  arms 
Dost  wind  embracing,  its  disjointed  stones 
Knitting  with  thy  strong  root-work,  like  a  mesh 
Of  living  nerves. 

The  brown  and  gnarled  trunk, 
Whose  heart  the  worm  hath  eaten,  thou  dost  deck 
As  for  its  bridal,  hiding  every  seam 
And  wrinkle  with  thy  broider'd  drapery. 
The  broken  column  mid  the  desert  sands, 
Where  dim  antiquity  hath  dozed  so  long 
That  slow  oblivion  stole  the  date  away 
Which  history  seeks  in  vain,  thou  still  dost  gird 


328  THE   IVY. 


And  cherish  as  a  tender  wife,  who  loves 
Best  when  all  else  forsake. 

'Twas  sweet  to  sit 

Beneath  thy  shade,  and  mark  thee  closely  wrap 
The  castellated  domes  of  the  old  world ; 
For  though  within  no  habitants  were  found, 
Save  noisome  bats,  or  the  gray,  boding  owl, 
Uttering  her  nightly  shriek,  yet  thou  untired 
Didst  do  thy  pleasant  work  of  charity, 
Feeding  the  glad  birds  with  thy  berries  sere, 
That  thickly  nested  mid  thy  niches  green.  , 
Art  thou  a  Christian,  Ivy, — thus  to  clothe 
The  naked,  and  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 
And  bless  the  old,  and  cheer  the  desolate  ? 
A  teacher  sure  thou  art,  and  shouldst  be  rank'd 
Among  the  few  who  by  example  teach, 
Making  a  text-book  of  their  own  strong  heart 
And  blameless  life. 

And  should  we  linger  here, 
Till  our  props  fall  around  us,  and  each  rose 
Fades  in  our  grasp,  oh !  might  one  friend  remain, 
Fond  and  unchanged  like  thee ;  we  scarce  should  heed 
The  touch  of  wasting  time. 

Yea,  should  some  stone 
Or  funeral  column  chronicle  our  name, 
Stretch  out  thine  arms,  and  wreathe  it,  reaching  forth 


THE  IVY.  329 


Thy  freshly  lustrous  leaf,  and  showing  all 
The  youjig  who  wander  there,  how  to  be  true 
In  love,  and  pitiful  to  wo,  and  kind 
To  hoary  age,  and  with  unswerving  heart 
Do  good  to  those  who  render  naught  again. 


330  THE   AGED   BISHOP. 


THE  AGED  BISHOP. 

A  scene  at  the  closing  of  a  Convention  in  Virginia,  by  the  venerable  Bishop  Moore. 

THEY  cluster 'd  round,  that  listening  throng, 

The  parting  hour  drew  nigh, 
And  heighten' d  feeling,  deep  and  strong, 

Spoke  forth  from  eye  to  eye; 

For  reverend  in  his  hoary  years, 

A  white-robed  prelate  bent, 
And  trembling  pathos  wing'd  his  words, 

As  to  the  heart  they  went. 

With  saintly  love  he  urged  the  crowd 

Salvation's  hope  to  gain, 
While,  gathering  o'er  his  furrow'd  cheek, 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  music  woke 

A  warm  and  solemn  strain ; 
His  favourite  hymn  swell'd  high,  and  fill'd 

The  consecrated  fane. 


THE    AGED   BISHOP.  331 

Then  from  the  hallow' d  chancel  forth, 

With  faltering  step,  he  sped, 
And  fervent  laid  a  father's  hand 

On  every  priestly  head. 

And  breathed  the  blessing  of  his  God, 

And,  full  of  meekness,  said, 
"Be  faithful  in  your  Master's  work 
When  your  old  bishop's  dead. 

"For  more  than  fifty  years,  my  sons, 

A  Saviour's  love  supreme 
Unto  a  sinful  world,  hath  been 
My  unexhausted  theme : 

"Now,  see,  the  blossoms  of  the  grave 

Are  o'er  my  temples  spread; 
Oh  !  lead  the  seeking  soul  to  Him 
When  your  old  bishop's  dead." 

Far  waned  the  holy  Sabbath-eve 

On  toward  the  midnight  hour, 
Before  the  spell-bound  throng  retired 

To  slumber's  soothing  power ; 


332  THE   AGED  BISHOP. 

• 
Yet  many  a  sleeper,  mid  his  dream, 

Beheld  in  snowy  stole 
That  patriarch-prelate's  bending  form, 

Whose  accents  thrill' d  the  soul. 

In  smiles  the  summer  morn  arose, 
And  many  a  grateful  guest, 

Forth  from  those  hospitable  domes, 
With  tender  memories,  press'd; 

While  o'er  the  broad  and  branching  bay, 
Which  like  a  heart  doth  pour 

A  living  tide,  in  countless  streams, 
Through  fair  Virginia's  shore, 

O'er  Rappahannock's  fringed  breast, 

O'er  rich  Potomac's  tide, 
Or  where  the  bold,  resistless  James 

Rolls  on  with  monarch-pride*, 

The  boats  that  ask  nor  sail  nor  oar, 

With  speed  majestic  glide, 
And  many  a  thoughtful  pastor  leans 

In  silence  o'er  their  side ; 


THE   AGED  BISHOP. 


333 


And,  while  he  seems  to  scan  the  flood 

In  silver  'neath  him  spread, 
Revolves  the  charge,  "Be  strong  for  Cf-od 

When  your  old  bishop's  dead." 


334  THE   RAINBOW. 


THE  KAINBOW. 

MOUNTAIN  !  that  first  received  the  foot  of  man, 
Giving  him  shelter  when  the  shoreless  flood 
That  whelm'd  a  buried  world  went  surging  by, 
I  see  thee  in  thy  lonely  grandeur  rise ; 
I  see  the  white-hair'd  Patriarch,  as  he  knelt 
Beside  his  earthen  altar  mid  his  sons, 
While  beat  in  praise  the  only  pulse  of  life 
Upon  this  buried  planet. — O'er  the  gorged 
And  furrow' d  soil  swept  forth  a  numerous  train, 
Horned,  or  cloven-footed,  fierce  or  tame, 
While,  mix'd  with  song,  the  sound  of  countless  wings, 
His  rescued  prisoners,  fann'd  the  ambient  air. 

The  sun  drew  near  his  setting,  clothed  in  gold, 
But  on  the  Patriarch,  ere  from  prayer  he  rose, 
A  darkly-cinctured  cloud  chill  tears  had  wept, 
And  rain-drops  lay  upon  his  silver  hairs. 
Then  burst  an  arch  of  wondrous  radiance  forth, 
Spanning  the  vaulted  skies.     Its  mystic  scroll 


THE    RAINBOW  335 


Proclaim'd  the  amnesty  that  pitying  heaven 
Granted  to  earth,  all  desolate  and  void. 

Oh  signet-ring !  with  which  the  Almighty  seal'd 
His  treaty  with  the  remnant  of  the  clay 
That  shrank  before  him,  to  remotest  time 
Stamp  wisdom  on  the  souls  that  turn  to  thee. 
Sublime  Instructor  !  who  four  thousand  years 
Hast  ne'er  withheld  thy  lesson,  but  unfurl'd, 
As  shower  and  sunbeam  bade,  thy  glorious  scroll, 
Oft,  mid  the  summer's  day,  I  musing  sit 
At  my  lone  casement,  to  be  taught  of  thee. 
Born  of  the  tear-drop  and  the  smile,  methinks, 
Thou  hast  affinity  with  man,  for  such 
His  elements  and  pilgrimage  below. 
Our  span  of  strength  and  beauty  fades  like  thine, 
Yet  stays  its  fabric  on  eternal  truth 
And  boundless  mercy. 

The  wild  floods  may  come, 
The  everlasting  fountains  burst  their  bounds, 
The  exploring  dove  without  a  leaf  return, 
Yea,  the  fires  glow  that  melt  the  solid  rock, 
And  earth  be  wreck'd  :    What  then  f  Be  still,  my  soul ; 
Enter  thine  ark ;  God's  promise  cannot  fail ; 
For  surely  as  yon  rainbow  tints  the  cloud, 
His  truth,  thine  Ararat,  will  shelter  thee. 


336  THE   THRIVING   FAMILY. 


THE  THRIVING  FAMILY, 

A  SONG. 

OUR  father  lives  in  Washington, 

And  has  a  world  of  cares, 
But  gives  his  children  each  a  farm, 

Enough  for  them  and  theirs. 
Full  thirty  well  grown  sons  has  he, 

A  numerous  race  indeed, 
Married  and  settled  all,  d'ye  see, 

With  boys  and  girls  to  feed. 
So  if  we  wisely  till  our  lands, 

We're  sure  to  earn  a  living, 
And  have  a  penny,  too,  to  spare 

For  spending  or  for  giving. 
A  thriving  family  are  we, 

No  lordling  need  deride  us, 
For  we  know  how  to  use  our  hands, 

And  in  our  wits  we  pride  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail, 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 


THE   THRIVING  FAMILY.  337 

Some  of  us  dare  the  sharp  north-east ; 

Some,  clover  fields  are  mowing ; 
And  others  tend  the  cotton  plants 

That  keep  the  looms  a-going ; 
Some  build  and  steer  the  white-wing' d  ships, 

And  few  in  speed  can  mate  them, 
While  others  rear  the  corn  and  wheat, 

Or  grind  the  corn  to  freight  them. 
And  if  our  neighbours  o'er  the  sea 

Have  e'er  an  empty  larder, 
To  send  a  loaf  their  babes  to  cheer 

"We'll  work  a  little  harder. 
N"o  old  nobility  have  we, 

No  tyrant  king  to  ride  us ; 
Our  sages  in  the  Capitol 

Enact  the  laws  that  guide  us. 

Hail,  brothers,  hail, 

t 
Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

Some  faults  we  have,  we  can't  deny, 

A  foible  here  and  there ; 
But  other  households  have  the  same, 

And  so  we  won't  despair. 
'Twill  do  no  good  to  fume  and  frown,  t 

And  call  hard  names,  you  see, 


338  THE   THRIVING   FAMILY. 

And  what  a  shame  'twould  be  to  part 

So  fine  a  family ! 
'Tis  but  a  waste  of  time  to  fret, 

Since  Nature  made  us  one, 
For  every  quarrel  cuts  a  thread 

That  healthful  Love  has  spun. 
Then  draw  the  cords  of  union  fast, 

Whatever  may  betide  us, 
And  closer  cling  through  every  blast, 

For  many  a  storm  has  tried  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail, 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 


FLOWERS    IN   CHILDHOOD   AND    AGE.  339 


FLOWEBS  IN  CHILDHOOD  AND  AGE. 

THE  flowers  were  beautiful  to  me 

When  childhood  lured  the  way 
Along  the  green  and  sunny  slope, 

Or  through  the  groves  to  stray. 
They  were  to  me  as  playmates  dear. 

And  when  upon  my  knee 
I  whisper 'd  to  them  in  their  beds, 

Methought  they  answer 'd  me. 

I  bent  to  kiss  them  where  they  grew, 

And  smiling  bore  away 
On  lip  and  cheek  the  diamond  dew 

That  glittering  deck'd  their  spray. 
The  bud,  on  which  no  eye  hath  glanced, 

Save  His  who  form'd  its  pride, 
Seem'd  as  a  sister  to  my  heart, 

For  it  had  none  beside. 


340  FLOWERS    IN    CHILDHOOD    AND    AGE. 

Then  countless  gay  and  fairy  forms 

Gleain'd  by,  on  pinions  rare, 
And  many  a  castle's  turret  bright 

Was  pictured  on  the  air; 
For  Fancy  held  me  so  in  thrall, 

And  peopled  every  scene, 
That  flowers  might  only  fill  the  space 

A  thousand  joys  between. 

But  as  life's  river  nears  its  goal, 

And  glittering  bubbles  break, 
The  love  of  flowers  is  like  his  grasp 

Whom  stronger  props  forsake, 
Who,  drifting  toward  some  wintry  clime, 

Hangs  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
To.  snatch  one  faded  wreath  of  hope 

From  out  the  whelming  tide. 

Like  his,  who  on  the  isthmus  stands 

Whose  ever-crumbling  verge 
Divides  the  weary  race  of  time 

From  death's  advancing  surge, 
And  sees,  to  cheer  its  dreary  strand, 

Pale  Memory's  leaflets  start, 
And  binds  them  as  a  blessed  balm 

To  heal  his  lonely  heart. 


Awlule  lie  pa~u;:ed 


THE    DIVIDED    BURDEN.  341 


THE  DIVIDED  BUEDEN. 

I  SAW  a  boy  who' towards  his  cottage  home 
A  heavy  burden  bore.     The  way  was  steep 
And  rocky,  and  his  little  loaded  arm 
Strain' d  downward  to  its  full  extent,  while  wide 
The  other  horizontally  was  thrown, 
As  if  to  counterpoise  the  painful  weight 
That  drew  him  towards  the  earth. 

A  while  he  paused 

And  set  his  burden  down,  just  where  the  path 
Grew  more  precipitous,  and  wiped  his  brow 
With  his  worn  sleeve,  and  panting  breathed  long  draughts 
Of  the  sweet  air,  while  the  hot  summer  sun 
Flamed  o'er  his  forehead. 

But  another  boy, 

'Neath  a  cool  poplar  in  a  neighbouring  field, 
Sat  playing  with  his  dog ;  and  from  the  grass 
Uprising,  with  light  bound  the  coppice  clear'd, 
And  lent  a  vigorous  hand  to  share  the  toil. 
So  on  they  went  together,  grasping  firm 


342  THE   DIVIDED   BURDEN. 

The  basket's  handle  with  a  right  good  will ; 

And  while  their  young,  clear  voices  met  my  ear, 

I  recollected  how  the  Bible  said, 

"Bear  one  another's  burdens,"  and  perceived 

That  to  obey  God's  word  was  happiness. 

Then,  as  the  bee  gleans  from  the  humblest  flower 

Sown  by  the  wayside,  honey  for  her  hive, 

I  treasured  up  the  lesson,  and  when  eve 

Call'd  home  the  labouring  ox,  and  to  its  bed 

Warn'd  the  young  bird,  and  shut  the  lily's  cup, 

I  took  my  little  boy  upon  my  knee, 

And  told  him  of  the  basket-bearer's  toil. 

And  of  the  friend  who  help'd  him. 

When  his  eye 

Swell'd  full  and  round,  and  fix'd  upon  my  face, 
Taking  the  story  to  his  inmost  soul, 
I  said,  "My  son,  be  pitiful  to  all, 
And  aid  them  when  thou  canst. 

For  God  hath  sown 

Sweet  seeds  within  us,  seeds  of  sympathy, 
Whose  buds  are  virtues,  such  as  bloom  for  heaven. 

"If  thy  young  sister  weepeth,  kiss  the  tear 
From  her  smooth  cheek,  and  soothe  with  tender  words 
Her  swelling  breast ;  or  if  a  secret  thorn 
Is  in  thy  brother's  bosom,  draw  it  thence ; 


THE   DIVIDED   BURDEN.  345 

Or  if  thy  playmate  sorroweth,  lend  an  ear, 
And  share  with  sympathy  his  weight  of  wo. 

"And  when  thou  art  a  man,  my  little  one, 
Still  keep  thy  spirit  open  to  the  ills 
Of  foreigner  and  stranger,  of  the  race 
Whom  Afric's  sun  hath  darken'd,  and  of  those 
Poor  red-brow'd  exiles  from  our  forest  shades, 
Where  once  they  ruled  supreme. 

Thus  shalt  thou  shun 

That  selfishness  which,  wrapp'd  in  its  own  pride, 
Forgets  alike  the  Giver  and  the  grief 
Of  those  who  mourn. 

So  mayst  thou  ever  find 
Pity  and  love  in  thine  own  time  of  need, 
If  on  thy  young  heart,  as  a  signet-ring, 
Thou  grav'st  that  motto  from  a  Book  Divine, 
'Bear  one  another's  burdens,  and  fulfil 
The  law  of  Christ.'  " 


344  THE   INFANT'S   PRAYER. 


THE  INFANT'S  PRAYER. 

THE  west  had  shut  its  gate  of  gold 

Upon  the  parting  sun, 
And  through  each  window's  curtaining  fold 

Lamps  glimmer'd  one  by  one ; 
And  many  a  babe  had  sunk  to  rest, 
And  many  a  tender  mother's  breast 

Still  lull'd  its  darling  care, 
When  in  a  nursery's  quiet  bound, 
With  fond  affections  circled  round, 

I  heard  an  infant's  prayer. 

Yes,  there  it  knelt ;  its  cherub  face 

Upraised  with  earnest  air, 
And  well  devotion's  heaven-born  grace 

Became  a  brow  so  fair. 

i 

Yet  seldom  at  our  Father's  throne 
Such  glad  and  happy  child  is  known 
So  tearfully  to  strive ; 


THE  INFANT'S  PRAYER.          345 

For  long,  with  trembling  ardour  fraught, 
That  supplicating  lip  besought, 
"Please  God,  let  Lilly  live." 

And  still  went  up  the  imploring  strain, 

That  little  couch  beside, 
As  if  for  "poor  sick  Lilly's  pain," 

It  could  not  be  denied. 
E'en  when  the  balm  of  slumber  stole 
With  soothing  influence  o'er  the  soul,  t 

Like  moonlight  o'er  the  stream, 
The  murmuring  tone,  the  sobbing  strife, 
The  broken  plea  for  Lilly's  life, 

Mix'd  with  the  infant  dream. 

So  Lilly  lived,  but  not  where  time 

Is  measured  out  by  woes ; 
Not  where  stern  winter  chills  the  clime, 

Or  canker  eats  the  rose. 
And  she  who  for  that  darling  friend 
In  agonizing  love  did  bend, 

To  pour  the  simple  prayer, 
Safe  from  the  pang,  the  groan,  the  dart, 
That  grieve  the  mourning  parent's  heart, 

Lives  with  her  Lilly  there. 


346  THE    VICTIM   OF    THE    DEEP. 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE  DEEP. 

UNFATHOM'D  main !  who  to  thy  dark  embrace 
Hast  taken  the  born  of  earth,  the  varied  haunts 
Of  his  young  boyhood's  sport,  the  corn-clad  fields 
Where  erst  he  held  the  plough,  remember  him. 
Home  and  its  many  voices,  wild  with  grief, 
Reproach  thee  for  his  absence,  and  demand 
Why  he  returns  not. 

For  with  vigorous  step 

He  left  his  cottage-door.     Through  his  young  veins 
The  health-tide  coursed,  and  in  each  compact  limb 
Strength  revell'd.     And  with  such  confiding  joy 
He  turn'd  to  thee,  that  scarce  a  mother's  wo 
Woke  one  brief  tear. 

Who  whispereth  he  is  dead  ? 
Dead  !     And  how  died  he  ? 

Answer  us,  thou  Sea  ! 

No  doubt,  thou  fain  wouldst  hide  the  fearful  tale, 
The  plunge,  the  gasp,  the  agonizing  pang 
With  which  thy  treacherous  policy  was  seal'd. 


THE    VICTIM    OF    THE    DEEP.  347 

What  right  hadst  thou,  without  one  sound  of  knell, 
Or  hallow'd  prayer,  or  step  of  funeral  train, 
In  thy  cold-hearted  heathenism  to  take 
Him  on  whose  brow  the  pure  baptismal  dew 
Was  shed,  which  mark'd  him  of  the  fold  of  Christ  ? 
E'en  now  thou  roll'st  above  him,  with  the  play 
Of  all  thy  crested  waves,  mocking  the  trust 
Which,  from  the  footing  of  the  firm,  green  earth, 
He  drew  to  place  on  thee. 

His  boyish  eye 

Thou  lur'dst  with  pictures  of  the  snowy  sail 
Swelling  in  beauty,  of  the  foreign  port 
Replete  with  wealth,  and  of  the  glowing  scene 
Of  glad  return.     How  hast  thou  kept  thy  pledge, 
Devouring  main  ? 

Oh  !  break  thy  sullen  pause, 
And  tell  us  how  he  died. 

The  storm  was  high, 

And,  wrapp'd  in  midnight,  mid  the  slippery  shroud 
He  miss'd  his  footing.     Loose  he  swang  and  wide 
Over  the  boiling  surge,  a  single  rope 
Grasping  convulsively,  and  on  the  blast 
Pouring  wild  cries  for  help. 

The  strain' d  ship  lurch' d, 
And  from  the  billows  rose  a  voice  of  prayer 
Unto  redeeming  love.     A  rope  was  cast, 


348  THE   VICTIM   OF   THE   DEEP. 

Yet  lie  beheld  it  not ;  a  life-boat  lower'd, 
But  the  shrill  echo  of  his  comrades'  shout 
Sank  'neath  the  tumult  of  the  thunder-blast, 
And  cold  death-silence  settled  where  he  strove 
Briefly,  with  panting  breast. 

Relentless  Sea ! 

Doth  it  not  grieve  thee,  that  a  broken  heart 
Sinks  heavy  in  a  mother's  breast  for  this  ? 
Or  that  a  pale-brow' d  maiden  counts  the  hours, 
By  sound  of  dropping  tears  ? 

But  there  shall  come 

A  blast  of  trumpet,  and  thy  startled  depths 
All  the  reft  spoil  of  earth  shall  render  back, 
Atom  by  atom. 

Then  mayst  thou  arise 
In  glorious  beauty,  Sailor-Boy  !  and  meet 
That  Saviour's  smile,  whose  name  was  on  thy  lip 
When  broke'the  last  wave  o'er  thee. 

Mayst  thou  hear 

His  blessed  welcome  to  a  peaceful  home 
Where  there  is  no  more  sea. 


HAROLD   AND   TOSTI.  349 


HAROLD  AND  TOSTI. 


Tosti,  a  son  of  Earl  Godwin,  joined  Ilardrada,  king  of  Norway,  in  an  invasion  of  Eng 
land,  his  native  land,  and  fought  against  his  brother  Harold,  the  last  of  the  Saxon 
monarchs,  at  the  battle  of  Stamford-Bridge,  September  25th,  1066. 


ON  England's  shore,  the  pirate  king 

Of  Norway's  frigid  clime, 
From  thrice  a  hundred  beaked  ships, 

Debark'd  his  men  of  crime  ; 
While  at  his  side  the  outlaw  son 

Of  proud  Earl  Godwin  came, 
And  many  a  child  in  terror  shrank 

At  dreaded  Tosti's  name. 

King  Harold  led  a  dauntless. host, 

For  every  loyal  thane, 
Arousing  at  his  country's  call, 

Convoked  a  vassal-train ; 
And  while  green  Autumn  robed  the  vales, 

And  corn  was  waving  high, 
Those  vengeful  armies  frowning  met, 

Where  Derwent  murmur'd  by. 


350  HAROLD    AND    TOSTI. 

But  England's  power,  in  mass  compact, 

Was  ranged  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Solemn,  and  motionless,  and  dark, 

A  mountain  clothed  in  mail. 
Then  Harold  paused  a  moment's  space, 

Ere  shafts  in  blood  were  dyed, 
And  of  Earl  Edwin  ask'd,  who  rode 

In  armour  by  his  side, — 

"  Who  wears  yon  scarf  of  azure  dye, 

And  helm  of  burnish'd  gold  ?" 
"  Hardrada,  prince  of  Norway's  realm, 

A  warrior  fierce  and  bold." 
"And  who  is  he,  with  towering  head, 

Majestic,  firm,  and  cool, 
Who  casts  around  such  eagle-glance, 

As  he  the  world  would  rule  ?" 

"  The  rebel  of  Earl  Godwin's  line  ;" 

Yet  spared  the  words  to  speak, 
Thy  brother,  for  he  saw  the  blood 

Forsake  his  sovereign's  cheek ; 
And  though  he  rein'd  his  prancing  steed, 

His  brow  was  pale  as  clay, 
That  brow  which  ne'er  had  blanch'd  before 

In  battle's  deadliest  fray. 


HAROLD   AND   TOSTL  351 

Fraternal  memories  o'er  his  heart 

Like  softening  waters  flow'd, — 
The  mother's  kiss,  the  mother's  prayer, 

Alike  on  both  bestow'd. 
Then  parted  from  his  armed  ranks 

A  knight  of  noble  mien, 
And  waved  a  snowy  flag  of  truce 

Those  frowning  hosts  between. 

"  To  Tosti,  great  Earl  Godwin's  son, 

Kirfg  Harold  bids  me  say, 
Why  standst  thou  on  thy  native  soil 

Amid  its  foes  this  day  ? 
I  yield  thee  all  Northumbria's  realm, 

The  choicest  of  my  land ; 
Lay  down  thine  arms,  disperse  thy  host, 

And  clasp  a  brother's  hand." 

But  Tosti  turned  to  Norway's  king : 

"Behold  my  friend,"  said  he  ; 
"'What  is  thy  monarch's  boon  for  him, 

If  such  his  gifts  to  me?" 
"  Thus  Harold  answereth  Norway's  lord, 

Troubler  of  earth  and  wave ; 
Just  seven  good  feet  of  English  soil 
I  yield  thee  for  a  grave." 


352  HAROLD   AND   TOSTI. 

Then  Tosti  shouted,  loud  and  wild, 

He  smote  his  buckler  proud, 
And  spears  and  lances  flash' d  amain, 

Like  lightning  from  the  cloud; 
And  England's  mail-clad  cavalry 

Rush'd  on,  with  direst  shock, 
As  strikes  old  Ocean's  stormy  surge 

Against  the  fissured  rock. 

Then  calmly  from  the  English  lines 

Rode  forth  a  mitred  thane, 
Wulstan,*  the  bishop,  wise  and  old, 

Of  Worcester's  sacred  fane  ; 
Though  scarce  the  impetuous  tide  of  war 

Held  back  its  panting  wave, 
"While  thus  that  white-hair 'd  man  of  peace 

His  sovereign's  message  gave  : 

"  Oh,  Tosti !  by  the  memory  dear 

Of  boyhood's  early  trace, 
When  thou  wert  victor  at  the  ring, 
And  foremost  in  the  chase, 


*  Wulstan,  the  venerable  Bishop  of  Worcester,  had  previously  accompanied  King 
Harold  into  Northumberland,  where  a  violent  insurrection  was  quelled,  without  an  ap 
peal  to  the  sword,  by  the  influence  of  his  eloquence  and  piety.  lie  was  one  of  the  most 
revered  of  the  prelates,  whom  the  early  Saxon  chronicler?  were  accustomed  to  designate 
as  mass-thanes,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  barons,  or  world-thanes. 


HAROLD   AND   TOSTI.  353 

And  by  our  parent's  blessed  love, 

That  still  its  vigil  kept, 
When,  cheek  to  cheek,  and  heart  to  heart, 

On  the  same  couch  we. slept ; 

"  E'en  by  the  mercies  of  our  Lord, 

Who  for  our  sins  did  die, 
Spare  the  dire  waste  of  blood,  and  take 

A  brother's  clemency." 
"  Speed  back,  speed  back,  thou  Saxon  kern ! 

And,  if  thy  steed  be  slow, 
The  swift-win g'd  darts  of  glorious  strife 
May  chance  to  lay  thee  low." 

And  with  the  rebel's  echoed  ire, 

A  tide  of  crimson  rolls, 
With  clang  of  shield  and  cloven  helm, 

And  cry  of  parting  souls. 
Nor  stay'd  that  deadly  passion-strife, 

Till  o'er  the  ensanguined  plain 
The  flying  Northmen  wail'd  their  kind, 

With  haughty  Tosti  slain. 

Yet  Harold,  mid  that  triumph  hour, 
His  tent  in  sadness  sought, 


354  HAROLD    AND   TOSTI. 

And  deem'd  the  victory  all  too  dear 
A  brother's  blood  had  bought : 

While,  on  that  field,  the  bleaching  bones 
For  many  a  year  did  tell, 

Where  Peace  the  angel  strove  in  vain 
The  demon  War  to  quell. 


DREAMS.  355 


DREAMS. 

REVERE  the  mind,  so  full  of  mystery, 
E'en  in  its  passive  hours.     Behold  it  roam, 
With  unseal' d  eye  and  wide  unfolded  wing, 
While  the  tired  body  sleeps.     Immortal  guest ! 
Our  earthly  nature  bows  itself  to  thee, 
Pressing  its  ear  of  flesh  unto  the  sigh 
Of  thy  perturbed  visions,  if  perchance 
It  hear  some  murmur  of  thy  birth  divine, 
Thy  deathless  heritage. 

Ah  !  dreams  are  dear 
To  those  whom  waking  life  hath  surfeited 
With  dull  monotony.     When  the  long  day 
Wends  to  its  close,  and  stealthy  evening  steals, 
Like  some  lean  miser,  greedily  to  clutch 
Hope's  wreath  that  morning  gave,  is  it  not  sweet 
To  close  our  eyelids,  and  to  find  the  rose 
That  hides  no  thorn,  the  gold  that  knows  no  rust, 
Scatter'd  where'er  we  tread  ?     Is  it  not  sweet 
To  'scape  from  stern  reality,  and  glide 


356  DREAMS. 


Where'er  wild  fancy  marks  her  fairy  way 

Unlimited  ?     If  adverse  fortune  make 

Our  pillow  stony,  like  the  patriarch's  bed 

At  lonely  Bethel,  do  not  pitying  dreams 

Plant  a  bright  ladder  for  the  angels'  feet, 

And  change  our  hard  couch  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 

And  feed  our  souls  on  manna,  till  they  loathe 

Their  household  bread  ? 

To  traverse  all  unblamed 

Broad  realms,  more  bright  than  fabled  Araby ; 
To  hear  unearthly  music ;  to  inhale 
Ambrosial  fragrance  from  the  spicy  groves 
That  never  fade ;  to  see  the  tyrant  tomb 
Unlock  its  treasure-valve,  and  freely  yield  , 
The  loved,  the  lost,  back  to  our  glad  embrace ; 
To  catch  clear  glimpses  of  the  streets  of  gold, 
And  harpers  harping  mid  the  eternal  hills, 
These  are  the  pastimes  which  the  mind  doth  take 
While  its  poor  clay  companion  slumbers  deep, 
Weary  and  worn. 

If  thou  in  wintry  climes 

Shouldst  exiled  roam,  thy  very  heart's  blood  chill'd, 
Lay  but  thy  cold  hand  on  a  winged  dream, 
And  it  shall  bear  thee  straight  with  bounding  pulse 
To  drink  the  sunbeams  of  thine  own  blue  skies, 
Where  the  young  cottage  children  freely  fill 


D  R  E  A  M  S.  357 


Their  pinafores  with  flowers.     Should  ocean  swell, 

Or  the  eternal  mountains  stretch  their  bars 

'Tween  thee  and  thy  loved  home,  how  strangely  sweet 

To  touch  the  talisman  of  dreams,  and  sit 

Again  on  thine  own  sofa,  hand  in  hand 

With  the  most  loved,  thy  children  near  thy  side 

At  their  untiring  play,  the  shaded  lamp 

Shedding  its  quiet  beam,  while  now  and  then 

The  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece  doth  speak, 

To  register  the  diamond  sands  of  time, 

Made  brighter  by  thy  joys.     So  mayst  thou  hold 

Existence  in  two  hemispheres,  and  be 

Happy  in  both ;  yea,  in  each  separate  zone 

Have  thine  own  castles,  and  revisit  them 

Whene'er  it  pleaseth  thee. 

But  more  than  this : 

If  thou  wilt  seek  the  fellowship  of  dreams, 
And  fearless  yield  thee  to  their  loving  sway, 
And  make  them  friends,  they'll  swiftly  bear  thee  up 
From  star  to  star,  and  let  thee  hear  the  rush 
Of  angel-wings,  upon  God's  errands  speeding ; 
And,  while  they  make  some  silver  cloud  thy  car, 
Will  whispering  tell  thee  that  the  unslumbering  soul 
Wears  immortality  upon  its  crest, 
And,  by  its  very  power  to  soar  with  them, 
Proves  that  it  cannot  die. 


358  THE    CLOCK    AT    VERSAILLES. 


THE  CLOCK  AT  VEESAILLES. 


In  the  palace  of  Versailles,  a  clock,  during  the  whole  life  of  the  reigning  monarch, 
pointed  with  its  motionless  hands  to  the  hour  when  his  predecessor  died,  and  was  only 
to  be  again  moved  at  the  moment  of  his  own  death. 


WHERE  the  halls  with  splendour  glow, 
Where  the  gorgeous  fountains  throw 

Fullest  flood, 

There  a  chronicler  of  time, 
Wrapp'd  in  mystery  sublime, 

Mutely  stood. 

Like  the  finger  on  the  wall 
That  Belshazzar's  festival 

Dash'd  with  dread, 
Stern  it  bore  the  doom  of  fate, 
While  the  crowd  with  joy  elate 

Check'd  their  tread. 

Fix'd  as  adamantine  chain, 
Wilt  thou  never  move  again  ? 


THE    CLOCK   AT   VERSAILLES.  359 

Then  me  thought  an  inward  strain 

Murmur  *d  low^ 

"  Blind  with  pomp  or  folly's  chase 
Call  the  king  !     He  can  trace 
The  true  answer  in  my  face, 
He  doth  know. 

"  When  he  struggleth  long  and  sore, 
When  he  links  to  earth  no  more 

Hate  or  love, 

When  his  eye  hath  lost  its  light, 
When  his  hands  grow  stiff  and  white, 

Mine  shall  move. 

u  When  his  crown  availeth  not, 
And  the  death-hues  blear  and  blot 

Brow  and  cheek, 

When  his  tongue  no  more  can  frame 
Vaunt  of  power  or  moan  of  shame, 

Mine  shall  speak. 

"  I  shall  speak — I  shall  move, 
While  his  fickle  courtiers  rove 

Far  away ; 
With  my  doom  of  fate  and  fear 


360  THE    CLOCK   AT   VERSAILLES. 

For  the,  new-made  monarch's  ear 
I  shall  stay." 

Slow  the  murmur  in  the  breast 
Died  away,  and  there  at  rest, 

Still  and  stern, 
Stood  that  monitor  sublime, 
Teaching  truths  that  power  and  prime 

Shrink  to  learn. 


HEAVEN'S    LESSON.  361 


HEAVEN'S  LESSON. 

HEAVED  teacheth  tliee  to  mourn,  0  friend  beloved ; 
Thou  art  its  pupil  now.     The  lowest  class, 
The  first  beginners  in  its  school,  may  learn 
How  to  rejoice.     The  sycamore's  broad  leaf, 
Thrill' d  by  the  breeze,  the  humblest  grass-bird's  nest, 
Murmur  of  gladness ;  and  the  wondering  babe, 
Borne  by  its  nurse  out  in  the  open  fields, 
Knoweth  that  lesson.     The  wild  mountain-stream 
That  throws  by  fits  its  gushing  music  forth, 
The  careless  sparrow,  happy  though  the  frosts 
Nip  his  light  foot,  have  learn' d  the  simple  lore 
How  to  rejoice.     Mild  Nature  teacheth  it 
To  all  her  innocent  works. 

But  God  alone 

Instructeth  how  to  mourn.     He  doth  not  trust 
This  higher  lesson  to  a  voice  or  hand 
Subordinate.     Behold  !  He  cometh  forth  ! 
0  sweet  disciple,  bow  thyself  to  learn 
The  alphabet  of  tears.     Receive  the  lore, 


362  HEAVEN'S   LESSON. 


Sharp  though  it  be,  to  an  unanswering  breast, 
A  will  subdued.     And  may  such  wisdom  spring 
From  these  rough  rudiments,  that  thou  shalt  gain 
A  class  more  noble,  and,  advancing,  soar 
Where  the  sole  lesson  is  a  seraph's  praise. 
Yea,  be  a  docile  scholar,  and  so  rise 
Where  mourning  hath  no  place. 


THE    PRINCE    OF   EDOM.  363 


THE  PKINCE  OF  EDOM. 

1  Kings  xi.  21. 

THE  warriors  of  David  came  down  in  their  ire, 
And  Edom  was  scathed  with  their  deluge  of  fire  ; 
O'er  the  wrecks  of  its  throne  roll'd  oblivion's  dark  flood, 
And  the  thirst  of  its  valleys  was  satiate  with  blood. 

Its  prince,  a  lone  outcast,  an  orphan  distrest, 
In  the  palace  of  Egypt  found  refuge  and  rest, 
And  the  queen's  gentle  sister,  with  eye  like  the  dove, 
Became  in  her  beauty  the  bride  of  his  love. 

Yet  still,  a  dark  shade  o'er  his  features  would  stray, 
Though  the  lute-strings  thrill' d  soft  and  the  banquet  was  gay ; 
For  the  land  of  his  fathers  in  secret  he  pined, 
And  murmur 'd  his  grief  to  the  waves  and  the  wind. 

"  The  voice  of  my  co'untry  !  it  haunteth  my  dreams, 
I  start  from  my  sleep  at  the  rush  of  its  streams ; 
Oh,  monarch  of  Egypt !  sole  friend  in  my  wo, 
I  would  see  it  once  more.     Let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !" 


304  THE    PRINCE    OF    EDOM. 


"  Wouldst  thou  hie  to  the  desert,  and  couch  with  the  bear  ? 
Or  the  lion  disturb  in  his  desolate  lair  ? 
Wouldst  thou  camp  on  the  ruins  with  brambles  o'ergrown, 
While  the  blasts  in  their  mockery  respond  to  thy  moan  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  that  the  sword  of  stern  Joab  was  red 
Till  the  dukes  of  Idumea  were  slaughter 'd  and  dead  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  that  his  vengeance  relax'd  not,  nor  stay'd 
Till   six   moons   wax'd-   and   waned    o'er   the    carnage    he 
made?" 

"I  know  that  our  roof-trees  in  ashes  were  laid, 
And  the  vine  and  the  olive  hew'd  down  from  each  glade ; 
Yet  still  some  pale  sprouts  from  their  roots  may  be  seen, 
And  the  clefts  of  the  rock  with  their  foliage  be  green. 

"  I  know  that  our  virgins,  so  stately  and  fair, 
Who  wreathed  with  the  pearl  and  the  topaz  their  hair, 
That  our  merchants,  whose  wealth  with  a  monarch's  has  vied 
In  Phoenicia  and  Zidon  in  bondage  abide. 

"  But  roused  by  my  trumpet,  the  captives  shall  haste 
From  the  far,  foreign  realms,  where  their  life-blood  they 

waste ; 

From  the  walls  of  Azotus  with  speed  they  shall  fly, 
And  nest,  like  the  bird,  'neath  their  own  native  sky." 


THE    PRINCE    OF    EDOM. 


"  0  prince  of  red  Edom,  content  thee,  be  still ; 
Of  the  treasures  of  Egypt  partake  at  thy  will ; 
See,  thy  wife  lights  thy  bower  with  the  wealth  of  her  charms, 
And  thy  babe,  as  she  names  thee,  leaps  high  in  her  arms. 

"  Thou  know'st  from  thy  realm  all  the  people  have  fled, 
That  the  friends  of  thy  childhood  are  cold  with  the  dead ; 
Every  drop  of  thy  blood  from  that  region  is  reft, 
No  voice  of  thy  kindred  to  welcome  thee  left." 

"  Let  me  go,  king  of  Egypt,  to  visit  my  slain, 
To  weep  o'er  their  dust,  who  revive  not  again; 
Though  nought  in  their  courts  save  the  lizard  should  glide, 
And  the  bat  flap  his  wing  in  their  chambers  of  pride, 

"  Yet  still  shall  Mount  Seir  in  his  grandeur  remain, 
Still  the  rivers  roll  on  to  the  fathomless  main, 
If  no  tone  of  the  living  should  solace  my  wo, 
To  the  land  of  my  birth,  let  me  go,  let  me  go." 


3GG  THE   WIDOWED    MOTHER. 


THE  WIDOWED  MOTHER. 

HE  languish' d  by  the  way-side,  and  fell  down 
Before  the  noon-day.     In  his  hand  were  flowers 
Pledged  to  his  lady-love.     Like  her  heart's  joys, 
They  died  with  him. 

There  was  a  widow' d  form 
To  whom  the  echo  of  his  entering  step 
Had  been  as  music.     All  alone  she  sits, 
Tearful  and  pale.     The  world  henceforth  to  her 
Is  desolate  and  void. 

Young  Love  may  weep, 

But  sunbeams  dry  its  tears ;  and  the  quick  pulse 
Of  hope  in  Beauty's  bosom  doth  o'ercome 
The  syncope  of  grief.     But  unto  Age 
Thus  utterly  bereaved,  what  now  remains, 
Save,  with  bow'd  head  and  finger  on  its  lip, 
In  solemn  meekness  and  in  sanctity, 
The  Heavenly  Pilot  ever  in  its  view, 
To  pass  the  narrow  strait  that  coldly  bars 
Time  from  eternity  ? 


THE   WISH    OF    THE   WEARY   WOMAN.  367 


THE  WISH  OF  THE  WEARY  WOMAN. 

A  FORM  there  was,  still  spared  by  time 
Till  the  slow  century  fill'd  its  prime ; 
Stretch'd  on  its  bed,  with  half-closed  eye 
It  mark'd  uncertain  shades  flit  by; 
Nor  scarce  the  varied  world  of  sound 
To  the  seal'd  ear  admittance  found; 
While  the  worn  brow,  in  wrinkles  dark, 
Seem'd  like  the  gnarl'd  oak's  roughen'd  bark. 
» 

Oh  !  e'er  did  youthful  beauty  deck 
Those  wither 'd  limbs,  yon  living  wreck  ? 
Did  blushes  o'er  that  leathern  cheek 
The  warmth  of  wild  emotion  speak  ? 
Did  rosy  health  that  lip  bedew, 
And  kneeling  love  for  favour  sue  ? 
Alas  !  alas  !  for  him  who  bears 
A  hundred  years  earth's  load  of  cares. 


368  THE    WISH    OF    THE    WEARY   WOMAN. 

'Twere  vain  to  ask,  what  legends  old 
That  brain  might  in  its  chambers  hold ; 
What  pictures  in  its  gallery  fade, 
By  Fancy  touch'd  or  Hope  portray'd ; 
For  Memory  locks  the  cloister'd  cell, 
And  Silence  guards  the  citadel; 
But  still  that  weary  woman's  eye 
Doth  gaze  and  fix  on  vacancy. 

Yet  the  faint  lungs  spontaneous  play, 
The  heart's  pulsations  hold  their  way, 
And  helpless  to  the  garden  borne, 
Or  laid  beside  the  blossom'd  thorn, 
What  time  the  vernal  noontide  hour 
Gave  deeper  life  to  shrub  and  flower, 
Methought  a  quickening  influence  stole 
O'er  stagnant  veins,  and  frigid  soul. 

A  knell  burst  forth !     From  turret  high 
Its  mournful  cadence  floated  by ; 
E'en  on  that  rigid  ear  it  broke, 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  tear  awoke. 
Then  lo  !  a  hoarse,  sepulchral  tone, 
As  when  imprisoned  waters  moan, 
Moved  the  parch' d  lips  to  utterance  free, 
"Ah  !  when  will  that  bell  toll  for  me  ? 


THE    WISH    OF    THE    WEARY   WOMAN.  369 

"All,  all  are  gone !  the  husband  dear, 
The  loving  child,  the  friend  sincere. 
Once  toward  their  graves  with  grief  I  prest, 
But  now  I  bless  their  dreamless  rest ; 
For  lone,  amid  a  stranger-band, 
Sad  relic  of  the  past  I  stand ; 
Dead  at  the  root,  a  blasted  tree ; 
Ah  !  when  will  that  bell  toll  for  me  ? 

**Hath  Death  forgotten  ?     To  his  halls 
Childhood  and  youthful  prime  he  calls ; 
In  bowers  of  love,  or  domes  of  pride, 
He  finds  them,  wheresoe'er  they  hide : 
Fain  would  they  'scape,  but  to  his  sight 
I  hasten,  and  his  shaft  invite. 
Hath  God  forgot  ?     I  bend  the  knee, 
Oh,  let  that  knell  be  toll'd  for  me !" 


370  THE    FIRST   MISSIONARY. 


THE  FIRST  MISSIONARY. 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  Leader  of  that  band  who  toil 
The  everlasting  gospel's  light  to  shed 
On  earth's  benighted  climes  ? 

Canst  tell  the  name 

Of  the  first  Teacher  in  whose  steps  went  forth, 
O'er  sultry  India,  and  the  sea-green  isles, 
And  to  the  forest  children  of  the  West, 
A  self-denying  band,  who  counted  not 
Life  dear  unto  them,  so  they  might  fulfil 
Their  ministry,  and  save  the  heathen  soul  ? 

Judea's  mountains  from  their  breezy  heights 
Reply,  ""We  heard  him  when  he  lifted  up 
His  voice,  and  taught  the  people  patiently 
Line  upon  line,  for  they  were  slow  of  heart." 
From  its  dark  depths  the  Galilean  lake 
Told  hoarsely  to  the  storm-cloud,  how  he  dealt 
Bread  to  the  famish'd  throng  with  tender  care, 
Forgetting  not  the  body,  while  he  fed 


THE  FIRST   MISSIONARY.  371 

The  immortal  spirit;  how  he  stood  and  heal'd 
Day  after  day,  till  evening  shadows  fell 
Around  the  pale  and  paralytic  train, 
Lame,  halt,  and  blind,  and  lunatic,  who  sought 
His  pitying  touch. 

Mount  Olivet  in  sighs 

Spake  mournfully,  "His  midnight  prayer  was  mine; 
I  heard  it,  I  alone,  as  all  night  long 
Upward  it  rose,  with  tears  for  those  who  paid 
His  love  with  hatred." 

Kedron's  slender  rill 

That  bathed  his  feet,  as  to  his  lowly  work 
Of  mercy  he  went  forth,  still  kept  his  name 
Securely  hoarded  in  its  secret  fount, 
A  precious  pearl-drop ! 

Sad  Gethsemane 

Had  memories  that  it  falter 'd  to  repeat, 
Such  as  the  strengthening  angel  mark'd  appall'd, 
Finding  no  dialect  in  which  to  bear 
Their  wo  to  heaven. 

E'en  Calvary,  who  best 

Might,  if  it  would,  our  earnest  question  solve, 
Press'd  close  its  flinty  lip,  and  shuddering  bow'd 
In  silent  dread,  remembering  how  the  sun 
Grew  dark  at  noonday,  and  the  sheeted  dead 


372  THE   FIRST  MISSIONARY. 

Came  from  their  mouldering  sepulchres,  to  walk 
Among  the  living. 

But  the  bold  bad  host, 
Spirits  of  evil,  from  the  lake  of  pain, 
Who  held  brief  triumph  round  the  mystic  cross, 
Bare  truthful  witness,  as  they  shrieking  fled, 
"We  know  thee  who  thou  art,  the  Christ  of  God:1 
While  heaven,  uplifting  its  eternal  gates, 
With  chant  of  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
Welcomed  the  Lord  of  glory  entering  in, 
His  mission  done. 


TO   MOTHERLESS   CHILDREN.  373 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS 
CHILDREN. 

COME,  gather  closer  to  my  side, 

My  little  smitten  flock, 
And  I  will  tell  of  him  who  brought 

Pure  water  from  the  rock ; 
Who  boldly  led  God's  people  forth 

From  Egypt's  wrath  and  guile, 
And  once  a  cradled  babe  did  float 

All  helpless  on  the  Nile. 

You're  weary,  precious  ones,  your  eyes 

Are  wandering  far  and  wide ; 
Think  ye  of  her  who  knew  so  well 

Your  tender  thought  to  guide  ? 
Who  could  to  wisdom's  sacred  lore 

Your  fix'd  attention  claim  ? 
Ah  !  never  from  your  hearts  erase 

That  blessed  mother's  name. 


374  TO    MOTHERLESS    CHILDREN. 

'Tis  time  to  sing  your  evening  hymn, 

My  youngest  infant  dove  ; 
Come,  press  your  velvet  cheek  to  mine, 

And  learn  the  lay  of  love ; 
My  sheltering  arms  can  clasp  you  all, 

My  poor  deserted  throng  ; 
Cling  as  you  used  to  cling  to  her 

Who  sings  the  angel's  song. 

Begin,  sweet  birds,  the  accustom'd  strain; 

Come,  warble  loud  and  clear ; 
Alas  !  alas  !  you're  weeping  all, 

You're  sobbing  in  my  ear. 
Good-night — go  say  the  prayer  she  taught 

Beside  your  little  bed ; 
The  lips  that  used  to  bless  you  there 

Are  silent  with  the  dead. 

A  father's  hand  your  course  may  guide 

Amid  the  thorns  of  life, 
His  care  protect  those  shrinking  plants 

That  dread  the  storms  of  strife ; 
But  who,  upon  your  infant  hearts, 

Shall  like  that  motner  write  ? 
Who  touch  the  strings  that  rule  the  soul  ? 

Dear,  smitten  flock,  good-night ! 


SORROW   AS   ON   THE   SEA.  375 


"SORROW  AS  ON  THE  SEA." 

Jeremiah. 

"  Sorrow  as  on  the  sea." 

0  man  of  grief, 

Prophet !  who  in  the  troublous  time  of  siege 
And  famine,  when  the  fierce  Chaldean  bands 
Invaded  Israel,  didst  predict  her  fate 
And  feel  her  vengeance,  didst  thou  ever  taste 
The  sorrow  of  the  sea  ?     Strength  reft  away, 
The  spirit  melted,  hope  in  darkness  lost, 
And  that  eternal  loathing,  day  by  day, 
Born  of  those  cruel  tossings  that  forbid 
The  tortured  nerve  upon  its  rack  to  rest, — 
For  these,  thy  plaintive  harp,  thai  sang  so  well 
Of  prison  woes,  must  strike  another  strins 

Thunder  upon  the  main  ! 

Ho,  mariner, 

For  whom  the  landsman  in  his  happy  home 
Hath  little  feeling,  mount  the  shrouds,  go  up 


376  SORROW    AS    ON    THE    SEA. 

Into  the  inky  blackness,  dare  the  shaft 
Of  heaven's  red  lightning  on  the  pointed  mast, 
Speck  as  thou  art,  which  neither  sea  nor  sky 
Own,  or  remember,  mid  their  maniac  strife. 
The  good  ship  breasts  the  surge,  intent ^to  bide 
The  battle  bravely.     Yet,  like  hunted  deer, 
It  croucheth  in  the  hollow  of  the  sea, 
Until  the  fulF-mouthed  billows  drive  it  forth 
Reeling  and  scathed.     Anon,  the  madden'd  winds 
Pour  out  fresh  forces,  and  with  riven  crest 
It  rusheth  desperate  o'er  the  terraced  wave, 
Vex'd  by  their  dread  artillery.     0  hearts 
Of  human  mould  !  that,  soften' d  by  the  love 
Of  home  and  kindred,  have  endured  the  scourge 
Of  Ocean's  tempests,  or  upon  the  wreck, 
"Week  after  week,  held  with  untold  despair 
Gaunt  fellowship,  ye  might  a  tale  unfold 
To  daunt  the  dream,  and  turn  the  revel  pale. 

Sorrow  as  on  the  sea  ! 

A  woman  mourns, 

Pale  as  the  little  marble  form  she  folds 
Close  in  her  arms,  resisting  all  who  touch 
The  darling  of  her  bosom. 

"'Twill  awake; 
It  hath  but  fainted.     The  wild,  rocking  sea 


SORROW   AS   ON   THE   SEA.  377 

Hath  made  it  sick.     I  tell  ye  'twill  revive. 
Child  !  baby  !  look  on  me  !     'Twill  smile  again." 
"  Yes,  mother,  yes  !  but  not  below  the  skies." 
Spasm  and  convulsion  seize  her  at  the  thought 
That  the  dear  idol,  whom  but  yesterday 
She  cradled  from  the  zephyr's  roughen'd  breath, 
Alone  must  to  the  unfathom'd  depths  go  down, 
And  for  its  little  body  find  a  bed 
Amid  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  deep. 
Yet  so  it  is.     And  she  must  wend  her  way 
O'er  the  stern  waves  that  made  her  desolate, 
To  her  far  home  again,  having  let  fall 
Her  soul's  chief  jewel  in  the  trackless  deep. 

Sorrow  as  on  the  sea  ! 

Ye  know  it  not 

Who  feel  a  firm  foundation  'neath  your  feet. 
And  sleep,  unvex'd  by  waves.     Death  comes  indeed, 
But  smites  you  in  the  sacred  place  of  graves, 
Where  ye  may  lay  your  dead  with  solemn  knell 
And  tender  sympathies  of  funeral  train, 
And  duly  visit  them,  and  dress  their  couch 
With  blessed  flowers,  type  of  their  rising  day. 
Yea,  from  the  gray-hair 'd  sexton  on  his  spade, 
Bespeak  your  own  turf-pillow  where  to  lie, 
And  rest  beside  them,  when  in  God's  good  time 


378  SORROW   AS   ON   THE   SEA. 

The  pale  death-angel  conies  to  summon  thee. 
True,  there  is  grief  on  earth.     But  when  ye  drain 
Its  cup  of  bitterness,  give  thanks  to  God 
If,  in  your  pilgrimage,  ye  ne'er  have  known 
The  sorrow  of  the  sea. 


MUTATIONS.  379 


MUTATIONS. 

As  waves  the  grass  upon  the  fields  to-day, 
That  soon  the  wasting  scythe  shall  sweep  away; 
As  smiles  the  floweret  in  the  morning  dew, 
That  eve's  chill  blast  in  blighted  death  may  strew, 
Thus  in  brief  glory  spring  the  sons  of  clay, 
Thus  bloom  awhile,  then  wither  and  decay. 

I  saw  an  infant  in  its  robe  of  white, 
The  admiring  mother's  ever  dear  delight ; 
It  clapp'd  its  hands  when  tones  of  mirth  went  by, 
And  nature's  gladness  glisten'd  in  its  eye. 
Again  I  came — an  empty  crib  was  there, 
A  narrow  coffin,  and  a  funeral  prayer. 

I  saw  a  boy  in  healthful  vigour  bold, 
Nor  summer's  heat  he  fear'd,  nor  winter's  cold ; 
With  dexterous  foot  he  dared  the  frozen  pool, 
His  laugh  rang  loudest  mid  his  mates  at  school. 
Again  I  came — his  name  alone  was  found 
On  one  low  stone  that  crowns  yon  swelling  mound. 


380  MUTATIONS. 


I  saw  a  gentle  maid  with  beauty  bless' d, 
In  youth  resplendent,  and  by  love  caress'd; 
Her  clustering  hair  in  sunny  ringlets  glow'd, 
Her  red  lips  moved,  and  thrilling  music  flow'd. 
Again  I  came — her  parents'  halls  were  lone, 
And  o'er  her  turf-bed  rose  the  weeper's  moan. 

Oh  boasted  joys  of  earth  !  how  swift  ye  fly, 
Kent  from  the  heart  or  hidden  from  the  eye ; 
So  through  the  web  the  weaver's  shuttle  glides, 
So  speeds  the  vessel  o'er  the  billowy  tides, 
So  cleaves  the  bird  the  liquid  fields  of  light, 
And  leaves  no  furrow  of  its  trackless  flight. 

Dust  tends  to  dust,  with  ashes  ashes  blend ; 
Yet  when  the  grave  engulfs  the  buried  friend, 
A  few  brief  sighs  may  mark  its  yawning  brink, 
A  few  salt  tears  the  broken  clods  may  drink, 
A  few  sad  hearts  with  bursting  anguish  bleed, 
And  pay  that  tribute  which  they  soon  must  need. 

They  soon  must  need  !     But  life's  returning  cares 
Sweep  oft'  the  precious  fruit  that  sorrow  bears ; 
The  mourner  drops  his  sable,  and  aspires 
To  light  anew  ambition's  smother 'd  fires, 


I  saw  a  pentle  maid  "with,  beauty  Lie  ss'd, 
TIL  youth.  ie splendent,  and  ty  love  caress'd. 


MUTATIONS  381 


Bathe  his  worn  brow  with  labour's  wasting  dew, 
And,  sleepless,  toil  for  heirs  he  knows  not  who. 

Thus  He  who  marks  us  in  our  vain  career, 
In  wisdom  darkens  what  we  hold  most  dear ; 
Shreds  from  our  vine  the  bowering  leaves  away, 
And  breaks  its  tendrils  from  their  grovelling  stay, 
That  the  rich  clusters,  lifted  to  the  sky, 
May  surer  ripen  for  a  world  on  high. 


382  OUR   COUNTRY. 


OUE  COUNTRY. 

LAND  of  broad  rivers  and  of  ocean-lakes, 
Sky-kissing  cliffs  and  prairies  prank 'd  with  flowers, 
That,  seated  on  thy  mountain-throne,  dost  hear 
The  Atlantic  and  Pacific's  mighty  surge 
Battling  against  thy  coast,  and -throw  to  each 
Thy  snow-white  sails,  that  visit  every  clime 
And  kindred  under  heaven, — fair  land  !  free  land  ! 
How  glorious  art  thou. 

Mid  thy  cultured  vales 
The  sturdy  reapers  sing,  garnering  the  corn 
That  feedeth  other  realms  besides  their  own. 
—Toil  lifts  his  brawny  arm,  and  takes  the  wealth 
That  makes  his  children  princes ;  Learning  wins 
By  studious  lamp  the  better  gold,  that  dreads 
Nor  rust  nor  robber's  wile  ;  Art  deftly  brings 
Tissue  and  tincture  and  the  fretted  stone ; 
Strange  steeds  of  iron,  with  their  ceaseless  freight, 
Tramp  night  and  day ;  while  the  red  lightning  bears 
Thy  slightest  whisper  on  its  wondrous  wing. 


OUR    COUNTRY.  383 


— Proudly  thou  spread'st  thine  eagle-pinion  o'er 
The  exiled,  and  the  crush' d  from  every  clime, 
Giving  them  welcome.     May  no  vulture  beak 
Transpierce  thee  for  thine  hospitality, 
But  sons  of  strangers  build  thy  walls,  and  call 
Thy  gates  salvation. 

'Neath  thy  lofty  dome 

'Tis  good  to  linger,  where,  in  conclave  high, 
Convene  the  chosen  from  thy  many  States, 
Sages,  and  men  of  eloquence,  who  stretch 
Their  line  of  travel  through  an  empire's  length 
To  pour  their  wisdom  at  thy  shrine,  and  make 
Thy  union  perfect.     From  the  wind-swept  hills, 
To  where  the  rich  magnolia  drinks  the  breath 
Of  fervid  suns — from  the  great,  beating  heart 
Of  the  young,  giant  West,  to  where  the  East, 
Wrinkled  with  thought,  doth  nurse  a  nation's  mind, 
They  come  to  do  thee  honour.     There,  to  list 
The  grave  debate,  or  catch  the  kindling  thrill 
With  which  irnpassion'd  eloquence  maintains 
Thine  eriial  laws,  inspires  the  ardent  prayer 
Of  patriot  love,  that  God  would  hold  thee  safe, 
And  firmly  knit  thy  children's  hearts,  to  share 
One  home,  one  destiny. 

A  mighty  wind 
Doth  shake  the  palaces  of  ancient  -time, 


384  OUR   COUNTRY 


And  voices  mid  the  despot  thrones  are  heard, 

Crying,  as  in  Jerusalem  of  old, 

"Let  us  depart !"     But  thou,  my  blessed  land, 

Like  some  fair  hearth  which  hovering  angels  guard, 

Gather  thine  offspring  round  thee,  and  make  bright 

Their  hallow' d  chain  of  love.     Warn  them  to  bear 

Each  other's  burdens,  seek  the  common  good, 

Be  pitiful  to  error,  and  repress 

Each  ruder  breath  that  stirs  to  wrathful  deeds. 

« 

Oh,  beautiful  and  glorious  !  thou  dost  wrap 
The  robes  of  Liberty  around  thy  breast, 
And  as  a  matron  watch  thy  little  ones 
Who  from  their  cradle  seek  the  village  school, 
Bearing  the  baptism  on  their  infant  brow 
Of  Christian  faith  and  knowledge,  like  the  bud 
That,  at  the  bursting  of  its  sheath,  doth  feel 

Pure  dews,  and  heavenward  turn. 

\ 
There  is  thy  strength, 

In  thy  young  children,  and  in  those  who  lead 
Their  souls  to  righteousness.     The  mother's  prayer 
With  her  sweet  lisper,  ere  it  sinks  to  rest — 
The  faithful  teacher  mid  a  plastic  group — 
The  classic  halls — the  hamlet's  slender  spire 
From  whence,  as  from  the  solemn  gothic  pile 
That  crowns  the  city's  pomp,  ascendeth  sweet 


OUR    COUNTRY.  385 


Jehovah's  praise — these  are  thy  strength,  my  land ! 
These  are  thy  hope. 

Oh  !  lonely  ark,  that  rid'st 
A  tossing  deluge,  dark  with  history's  wrecks, 
And  paved  with  dead  who  made  not  Heaven  their  help, 
God  keep  thee  perfect  in  thy  many  parts, 
Bound  in  one  living  whole. 


38G          REMOVAL   OF    AN   ANCIENT   MANSION. 


KEMOVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  MANSION. 

WHERE  art  thou,  old  friend  ? 

When  last 

This  familiar  haunt  I  past, 
Thou  didst  seem  in  vigorous  cheer, 
As  like  to  stand  as  any  here, 
With  roof- tree  firm,  and  comely  face 
Well  preserved  in  attic  grace, 
On  columns  fair  thine  arches  resting, 
Among  thy  trees  the  spring-birds  nesting ; 
Hast  thou  vanished  ?     Can  it  be 
I  no  more  shall  gaze  on  thee  ? 

Casements  whence  the  taper's  ray 
Glitter'd  o'er  the  crowded  way, 
Where,  embalm' d  in  fragrant  dew, 
Peer'd  the  snowy  lilac  through  ; 
Chimneys  whence  the  volumed  smoke 
Of  thy  warm  heart  freely  spoke  ; 


REMOVAL   OF   AN   ANCIENT   MANSION.          387 

Fallen  and  gone  !     No  vestige  left, 
Stone  from  stone  asunder  reft, 
While  a  chasm,  with  rugged  face, 
Yawns  and  darkens  in  thy  place. 

Threshold !  which  I  oft  have  prest, 
More  a  habitant  than  guest, 
For  their  blessed  sakes  who  shed 
Oil  of  gladness  on  my  head, 
Brows  with  hoary  wisdom  drest, 
Saints  who  now  in  glory  rest, 
Fain  had  I,  though  tear-drops  fell, 
Said  to  thee  one  kind  farewell ; 
Fain  with  tender,  grateful  sigh, 
Thank' d  thee  for  the  days  gone  by. 

Hearth-stone !  where  the  ample  fire 
Quell'd  old  Winter's  fiercest  ire, 
While  its  blaze  reflected  clear 
On  the  friends  who  gather 'd  near, 
On  the  pictures  quaint  and  old, 
Thou  of  quiet  pleasures  told ; 
Knitting-bag,  and  storied  page, 
Precepts  grave  from  lips  of  age, 
Made  the  lengthen'd  evening  fleet 
Lightly,  with  improvement  sweet. 


388          REMOVAL   OF  AN    ANCIENT  MANSION. 

Fallen  dome  !  beloved  so  well, 
Thou  couldst  many  a  legend  tell 
Of  the  chiefs,  of  ancient  fame, 
Who  to  share  thy  shelter  came. 
Rochambeau  and  La  Fayette 
Round  thy  plenteous  board  have  met, 
,  With  Columbia's  mightier  son, 
Great  and  glorious  Washington. 
Here  with  kindred  minds  they  plann'd 
Rescue  for  an  infant  land, 
While  the  British  lion's  roar 
Echoed  round  the  leaguered  shore. 

He,  who  now  where  cypress  weeps, 
On  Mount  Vernon's  bosom  sleeps, 
Once  in  council  grave  and  high 
Shared  thy  hospitality, 
When  the  sound  of  treason  drear, 
Arnold's  treason,  met  his  ear. 
Heart  that  ne'er  in  danger  quail' d, 
Lips  that  ne'er  had  faltered  paled, 
As  the  Judas'  image  stole, 
Shuddering,  o'er  his  stainless  soul, 
And  he  sped,  like  tempest's  shock, 
On  to  West  Point's  perill' d  rock. 


REMOVAL   OF    AN   ANCIENT    MANSION.         389 

Beauty  here,  with  budding  pride, 
Blossom'd  into  youth,  and  died; 
Manhood  tower' d  with  ruling  mind, 
Age  in  reverent  arms  declined, 
Bridals  bright  and  burials  dread 
From  thy  gates  their  trains  have  sped ; 
But  thy  lease  of  time  is  run, 
Closed  thy  date,  thy  history  done. 

All  are  vanish'd,  all  have  fled, 
Save  the  memories  of  the  dead  ; 
These  with  added  strength  adhere 
To  the  hearts  that  year  by  year 
Feebler  beat,  and  fainter  glow, 
Till  they  rest  in  turf  below ; 
Till  their  place  on  earth  shall  be 
Blotted  out,  old  dome,  like  thee. 

•7 

Other  fanes,  'neath  favouring  skies, 
(Blessings  on  them  !)  here  may  rise ; 
Other  groups,  by  hope  be  led, 
(Blessings  on  them  !)  here  to  tread ; 
Yet  of  thee,  their  children  fair 
Nothing  wot,  and  nothing  care. 
So  a  form,  that  soon  must  be 
Number 'd  with  the  past  like  thee, 


390          REMOVAL   OF   AN   ANCIENT   MANSION. 

Rests  with  pilgrim-staff  awhile, 
On  thy  wreck,  deserted  pile, 
And  the  dust  that  once  was  thine 
Garners  for  affection's  shrine. 


THE   LOST   LILY.  391 


THE  LOST  LILY. 

PAIN  would  I  tell  a  tale  of  Wyoming 
In  days  long  past.     There  was  a  rural  home, 
Lonely,  yet  pleasant,  near  whose  door  a  brook, 
Where  water-cresses  grew,  went  singing  by. 
In  its  small  garden,  many  a  cultured  bush 
Of  ripening  berries  mingled  here  and  there 
With  spicy  herbs,  sage  and  the  bee-loved  thyme, 
While  through  thick  boughs  the  blushing  apple  peer'd, 
Betokening  thrift  and  comfort. 

Once,  as  closed 

The  autumn-day,  the  mother  by  her  side 
Held  her  young  children,  with  her  storied  lore. 
Fast  by  her  chair,  a  bold  and  bright-eyed  boy 
Stood  statue-like,  while  closer,  at  her  feet, 
Sate  his  two  gentle  sisters.     One,  a  girl 
Of  some  seven  summers,  youngest,  and  most  loved 
For  her  prolonged  and  feeble  infancy. 
She  lean'd  upon  her  mother's  lap,  and  look'd 
Into  her  face  with  an  intense  regard, 


392  THE    LOST    LILY. 


And  the  quick,  intermitting  sob  that  shows 
The  listening  spirit. 

Pale  she  was,  and  fair, 
And  so  exceeding  fragile,  that  the  name 
Given  by  her  wilder  playmates,  at  their  sports, 
Of  "Lily  of  the  Yale,"  seem'd  well  bestow'd. 
The  mother  told  them  of  her  native  clime, 
Her  own,  beloved  New-England ;  of  the  school, 
Where  many  children  o'er  their  lessons  bent, 
Each  mindful  of  the  rules,  to  read,  or  spell, 
Or  ply  the  needle  at  the  appointed  hour ; 
And  how  they  serious  sate,  with  folded  hands, 
When  the  good  mistress  through  her  spectacles 
Explain'd  the  Bible. 

Of  the  church  she  spake, 
With  snowy  spire,  by  elms  o'er-canopied; 
And  how  the  sweet  bell,  on  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Summon' d  from  every  home  the  people  forth, 
All  neatly  clad,  and  with  a  reverent  air, 
Children  by  parents  led,  to  worship  God. 
Absorb'd  in  such  recital,  ever  mix'd 
By  that  maternal  lip  with  precepts  pure 
Of  love  to  God  and  man,  they  scarcely  mark'd 
A  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  casement  steal, 
Until  the  savage  footstep  and  the  flash 
Of  tomahawk  appall' d  them. 


THE   LOST   LILY.  393 


Swift  as  thought 

They  fled,  through  dell  and  thicket,  closely  track'd 
By  grim  pursuers.     The  frail  mother,  tax'd 
With  the  loved  burden  of  her  youngest  born, 
Moved  slowest,  and  they  cleft  her  fiercely  down ; 
Yet  with  that  impulse  which  doth  sometimes  move 
The  sternest  purpose  of  the  red  man's  breast 
To  a  capricious  mercy,  spared  the  child. 
Her  little  struggling  limbs,  her  streaming  eyes 
Averted  from  the  captors,  her  shrill  cry 
Stealing  in  fitful  echoes  from  afar, 
Deepen'd  the  mother's  death-pang. 

Eve  drew  on, 

And  from  his  toil  the  husband  and  the  sire 
Turn'd  wearied  home.    With  wondering  thought  he  mark'd 
No  little  feet  came  forth  to  welcome  him ; 
No  Lily  of  the  Vale,  who  first  of  all 
Was  wont  to  espy  him. 

Through  the  house  he  rush'd 
Empty  and  desolate,  and  down  the  wild. 
There  lay  his  wife,  all  weltering  in  her  blood, 
Upon  the  trampled  grass.     In  vain  he  bore 
The  form  of  marble  to  its  couch,  and  strove 
Once  more  to  vivify  that  spark  of  life 
Which  ruthless  rage  had  quench' d. 

On  that  dread  hour 


394  THE    LOST   LILY. 


Of  utter  desolation,  broke  a  cry, 

"Oh,  father!  father  !"  and  around  his  neck 

Two  weeping  children  wound  their  trembling  arms, 

Saved  mid  the  thicket's  tangled  depths,  to  share 

The  burden  of  his  wo. 

With  tireless  zeal, 

That  sad  dismember'd  household  sought  the  child 
Reft  from  their  arms,  and  oft  with  shuddering  thought 
Revolved  the  horrors  that  must  mark  her  lot, 
If  life  were  hers.     And  when  the  father  lay 
In  his  last,  mortal  sickness,  he  enjoin'd 
His  children  never  to  remit  their  search 
For  the  lost  Lily. 

Years  roll'd  on  their  course ; 
The  boy  became  a  man,  and  o'er  his  brow 
Stole  the  white,  sprinkled  hairs.     Around  his  hearth 
Were  children's  children,  and  one  pensive  friend, 
His  melancholy  sister,  night  and  day 
Mourning  the  lost.     At  length,  a  rumour  came 
Of  a  white  woman  found  in  Indian  tents, 
Far,  far  away.     A  father's  dying  words 
Came  o'er  the  husbandman,  and  up  he  rose, 
And  took  his  sad-eyed  sister  by  the  hand, 
Blessing  his  household,  as  he  bade  farewell, 
For  their  uncertain  pilgrimage. 

They  prest 


THE    LOST   LILY.  395 


O'er  cloud-capp'd  mounts,  through  forests  dense  with  shade, 
O'er  bridgeless  rivers,  swoln  to  torrents  hoarse, 
O'er  prairies  like  the  never-ending  sea, 
Following  the  chart  that  had  been  dimly  traced 
By  stranger-guide. 

At  length  they  reach'd  a  lodge 
Deep  in  the  wilderness,  beside  whose  door 
A  wrinkled  woman  with  the  Saxon  brow 
Sate  coarsely  mantled  in  her  blanket-robe, 
The  Indian  pipe  between  her  shrivell'd  lips. 
Yet  in  her  blue  eye  dwelt  a  gleam  of  thought, 
A  hidden  memory,  whose  electric  force 
Thrill'd  to  the  fount  of  being,  and  reveal'd 
The  kindred  drops  that  had  so  long  wrought  out 
A  separate  channel. 

With  affection's  haste 

The  sister  clasp'd  her  neck.     "  Oh  lost  and  found  ! 
Lily  !  dear  sister  !  praise  to  God  above  !" 
Then  in  wild  sobs  her  trembling  voice  was  lost. 
The  brother  drew  her  to  his  side,  and  bent 
A  long  and  tender  gaze  into  the  depths 
Of  her  clear  eye.     That  glance  unseal'd  the  scroll 
Of  many  years.     Yet  no  responding  tear 
Moisten' d  her  cheek,  nor  did  she  stretch  her  arms 
To  answer  their  embrace. 

«  Oh,  Lily  !  love  ! 


396  THE   LOST   LILY. 

For  whom  this  heart  so  many  years  hath  kept 
Its  dearest  place,"  the  sister's  voice  resumed, 
"  Hast  thou  forgot  the  home,  the  grassy  bank 
Where  we  have  play'd  ?     The  blessed  mother's  voice 
Bidding  us  love  each  other  ?  and  the  prayer 
With  which  our  father  at  the  evening  hour 
Commended  us  to  God?" 

Slowly  she  spake : 

"I  do  remember,  dimly,  as  a  dream, 
A  brook,  a  garden,  and  two  children  fair, 
A  loving  mother  with  a  bird-like  voice, 
Teaching  us  goodness ;  then  a  trace  of  blood, 
A  groan  of  death,  a  lonely  captive's  pain ; 
But  all  are  past  away. 

Here  is  my  home, 
These  are  my  daughters. 

If  ye  ask  for  him, 

The  eagle-eyed  and  lion-hearted  chief, 

< 
My  fearless  husband,  who  the  battle  led, 

There  is  his  grave." 

"  Go  back,  and  dwell  with  us, 
Back  to  thy  people,  to  thy  father's  God," 
The  brother  said.     "I  have  a  happy  home, 
A  loving  wife  and  children.     Thou  shalt  be 
Welcome  to  all.     And  these,  thy  daughters  too, 
The  dark-eyed  and  the  raven-hair' d,  shall  be 


THE    LOST    LILY. 


Unto  me  as  mine  own.     My  heart  doth  yearn 
O'er  thee,  our  hapless  mother's  dearest  one. 
Let  my  sweet  home  be  thine." 

A  trembling  nerve 

Thrill'd  all  unwonted  at  her  bosom's  core, 
And  her  lip  blanch'd.     But  the  two  daughters  gazed 
Reproachfully  upon  her,  to  their  cheek 
Rushing  the  proud  Miami  chieftain's  blood, 
In  haughty  silence.     So,  she  jvept  no  tears ; 
The  moveless  spirit  of  the  race  she  loved 
Had  come  upon  her,  and  her  features  show'd 
Slight  touch  of  sympathy. 

"Upon  my  head 

Rest  sixty  winters.     Scarcely  seven  were  past 
Among  the  pale-faced  people.     Hate  they  not 
The  red  man  in  their  heart  ?     Smooth  Christian  words 
They  speak,  but  from  their  touch  we  fade  away 
As  from  the  poisonous  snake. 

Have  I  not  said 

Here  is  my  home  ?  and  yonder  is  the  bed 
Of  the  Miami  chief  ?  Two  sons  who  bore 
His  brow,  rest  on  his  pillow. 

Shall  I  turn 

My  back'  upon  my  dead,  and  bear  the  curse 
Of  the  great  Spirit?" 

Through  their  feathery  plumes, 


399  THE   LOST   LILY. 


Her  dark-eyed  daughters  mute  approval  gave 
To  these  stern  words. 

Yet  still,  with  faithful  zeal, 
The  brother  and  the  sister  waited  long 
In  patient  hope.     If  on  her  brow  they  traced 
Aught  like  relenting,  fondly  they  implored, 
"  Oh  Lily  !  go  with  us  !"  and  every  tale 
That  pour'd  o'er  childhood's  days  a  flood  of  light 
Had  the  same  whisper'd  burden. 

Oft  they  walk'd 

Beside  her,  when  the  twilight's  tender  hour, 
Or  the  young  moonlight,  blendeth  kindred  hearts 
So  perfectly  together.     But  in  vain ; 
For  with  the  stony  eye  of  prejudice, 
Which  gathereth  coldness  from  an  angel's  smile. 
She  look'd  upon  their  love. 

And  so  they  left 

Their  pagan  sister  in  her  Indian  home, 
And  to  their  native  vale  of  Wyoming 
Turn'd  mournful  back.     There,  often  steep'd  in  tears, 
At  morn  or  evening,  rose  the  earnest  prayer, 
That  God  would  keep  in  their  lost  Lily's  soul 
The  seed  her  mother  sow'd,  and  by  His  grace 
So  water  it  that  they  might  meet  in  heaven. 


TWILIGHT.  399 


TWILIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  dimness,  like  a  doubt, 

That  wrappeth  earth  and  sky, 
When  Day  hath  in  its  glory  died, 
And  ere  the  Night  comes  forth  with  pride 
Of  sable  majesty. 

'Tis  like  the  soft  delay  of  Youth, 

Where  Love  hath  built  its  throne ; 

A  coy  reluctance,  ere  it  rest 

Entirely  on  another's  breast, 
To  be  no  more  its  own. 

It  is  the  gentle  pause  of  Heaven, 

E'eri  as  a  mother  mild, 
Before  some  new  bequest  is  lent, 
Inquireth  how  the  last  was  spent 

Of  her  forgetful  child. 

Then  Conscience,  like  that  fearful  cry 
Mid  Eden's  deep  repose, 


400  TWILIGHT. 


"Where  is  thy  brother  ?"  turns  its  ray 
Upon  the  annal  of  the  Day, 
That  to  its  funeral  goes. 

Perchance,  the  queenly  Moon  descends, 

And  lo  !  the  haughty  Sea 
On  her  pale  face  doth  fix  his  eye, 
And  bids  his  mightiest  tides  comply, 
And  own  her  regency. 

Yet  Twilight  gray  to  me  is  dear, 
More  than  the  blushing  Day, 

Or  noontide's  plenitude  of  light, 

Or  sober  certainty  of  Night, 
Or  Moon  with  silver  ray. 

For  then,  at  scepter 'd  Memory's  call, 

Long  buried  years  awake, 
And  tread  in  charmdd  circles  back, 
With  music,  o'er  their  flowery  track, 
Their  ancient  seats  to  take. 

And  parted  friends,  of  whom  we  say, 

In  beds  of  clay  they  rest, 
Bend  meekly  down  from  glory's  sphere, 
And  with  their  angel  smile,  or  tear, 
Allure  us  to  the  blest. 


THE   UNRIFLED    CABINET.  401 


THE  UNRIFLED  CABINET. 

"Then  shall  we  no  more  look  into  our  cabinet,  and  miss  its  treasures." — 

BAXTER. 

WHEN  shall  that  time  be  ?     When  ? 

So  many  buds 

We  shelter' d  in  the  garden  of  our  heart, 
Yet  ere  their  young  sheaths  open'd  to  the  sun, 
They  curl'd  their  leaves  and  died,  we  shrink  to  fill 
Their  vacant  places,  lest  the  same  sharp  grief 
And  trouble  come  upon  us.     Life  doth  seem, 
With  all  its  banners  of  felicity, 
Like  the  fair  alcove  of  the  bard,  and  seat 
Illusory,  on  which  we  find  no  rest.* 

In  the  mind's  store-house,  gold  we  had,  and  gems 
Gather 'd  from  many  a  tome.     The  key  we  gave 
•  To  Memory,  and  she  hath  betray 'd  her  trust. 


*  The  author  of  the  Night  Thoughts  had  in  hjs  garden  an  alcove,  with  the  represen 
tation  of  a  seat  so  well  painted  as  to  deceive  most  observers.    Near  it  was  the  inscription, 
"  Invisibilia  non  decipiunt." 
The  things  unseen  do  not  deceive  us. 


402  THE    UNRIFLED    CABINET. 

For  when  we  ask  of  her,  she  saith  that  years 
And  sleepless  cares  disturb 'd  her,  till  she  lost 
Our  stewardship  of  thought.     When  shall  it  be 
That  we  may  hoard  for  intellect,  nor  find 
The  work-day  World,  or  stealthy  Time,  a  thief? 

Leases  of  tenements  amid  the  sands 
And  on  the  cloud,  papers  and  bonds  wre  had, 
In  Earth's  handwriting,  well  endorsed  and  seal'd 
By  smooth-tongued  Hope. 

They're  lost !     The  lock  is  forced  ! 
The  casket  rifled  !     All  our  treasures  gone  ! 
And  only  a  brown  cobweb  in  their  place, 
Spun  by  some  mocking  spider. 

Still,  ye  say 

We  may  obtain  a  cabinet,  whose  hoard 
Robber,  nor  faithless  friend,  nor  rust  of  years, 
Shall  e'er  invade. 

When  shall  that  time  be  ?     When  ? 

When  Heaven's  pure  gate  unfoldeth,  and  thy  soul 
Glides  like  a  sunbeam  through. 

Then  shall  it  be. 


TALK   WITH   TIME.  403 


TALK  WITH  TIME  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF 
THE  YEAR. 

TIME,  old  Time,  with  the  forelock  gray, 
While  the  year  in  its  dotage  doth  pass  away, 
Come,  sit  by  my  hearth,  ere  the  embers  fail, 
And  hang  the  scythe  on  yon  empty  nail, 
And  tell  me  a  tale  'neath  this  wintry  sky 
Of  the  deeds  thou  hast  done  as  its  months  swept  by. 

"I  have  cradled  the  babe  in  the  churchyard  wide; 
From  the  husband's  arms  I  have  taken  the  bride ; 
I  have  cloven  a  path  through  the  Ocean's  floor, 
Where  many  have  sunk  to  return  no  more ; 
I  have  humbled  the  strong  with  their  dauntless  breast, 
And  laid  the  old  with  his  staff  to  rest. 

"I  have  loosen'd  the  stone  on  the  ruin's  height, 
Where  the  curtaining  ivy  grew  rank  and  bright ; 
I  have  startled  the  maid  in  her  couch  of  down, 
With  a  sprinkle  of  white  mid  her  tresses  brown ; 
I  have  rent  from  his  idols  the  proud  man's  hold, 
And  scatter 'd  the  hoard  of  the  miser's  gold." 


404  TALK    WITH    TIME. 

"  Is  this  all  ?     Are  thy  chronicles  traced  alone 
On  the  riven  heart  and  the  burial-stone  ?" 
"No,  Love's  young  chain  I  have  twined  with  flowers, 
Have  awaken'd  a  song  in  the  rosc-crown'd  bowers ; 
Proud  trophies  have  rear'd  to  the  sons  of  fame, 
And  paved  the  road  for  the  cars  of  flame. 

"Look  to  yon  child,  it  hath  learn'd  of  me 
The  word  that  it  lisps  at  the  mother's  knee ; 
Look  to  the  sage,  who  from  me  hath  caught 
Intenser  fire  for  his  heavenward  thought; 
Look  to  the  saint,  who  hath  nearer  trod 
Toward  the  angel  hosts  near  the  Throne  of  God. 

"I  have  planted  seeds  in  the  soul,  that  bear 
The  fruits  of  heaven  in  a  world  of  care ; 
I  have  breathed  on  the  tear  till  its  orb  grew  bright 
As  the  diamond  drop  in  the  realms  of  light : 
Question  thy  heart,  hath  it  e'er  confest 
A  germ  so  pure,  or  a  tear  so  blest  ?" 

But  the  clock  struck  twelve  from  the  steeple  gray, 
And  he  seized  his  hour-glass,  and  strode  away; 
Yet  his  hand  at  parting  I  fear'd  to  clasp, 
For  I  saw  the  scythe  in  its  earnest  grasp, 
And  read  in  the  glance  of  his  upward  eye 
His  secret  league  with  Eternity. 


MAN'S   THREE    GUESTS.  405 


MAN'S  THREE  GUESTS. 

A  KNOCKING  at  the  castle-gate 

When  the  bloom  was  on  the  tree, 
And  the  youthful  master,  all  elate, 

Himself  came  forth  to  see. 
A  jocund  lady  waited  there, 
Gay  was  her  robe,  of  colours  rare, 
Her  tresses  bright  to  the  zephyr  stream'd, 
And  her  car  on  its  silver  axle  gleam'd, 
Like  the  gorgeous  barge  of  that  queen  of  yore, 
Whose  silken  sail  and  flashing  oar  • 
Sparkling  Cydnus  proudly  bore. 
The  youth,  enraptured  at  her  smile, 
And  won  by  her  enchanting  wile 

And  flatteries  vain, 
Welcomed  her  in,  with  all  her  train, 
Placing  her  in  the  chiefest  seat, 
While  as  a  vassal  at  her  feet 
He  knelt,  and  paid  her  homage  sweet. 


406  MAN'S   THREE   GUESTS. 

She  deck'd  his  halls  with  garlands  gay, 
Bidding  the  sprightly  viol  play, 

Till  by  her  magic  power 
Day  turn'd  to  night,  and  night  to  day, 

For  every  fleeting  hour 
Bow'd  to  Pleasure  as  its  queen; 
And  so,  that  siren  guest,  of  mirthful  mien, 

Linger 'd  till  the  vernal  ray 
And  summer's  latest  rose  had  sigh'd  itself  away. 

A  knocking  at  the  gate  ! 
And  the  lordling  of  the  hall, 
A  strong  and  bearded  man  withal, 
Held  parley  at  the  threshold-stone 

In  the  pomp  of  his  estate. 
And  then  the  warder's  horn  was  blown, 
The  ponderous  bolts  drawn  one  by  one, 
And  slowly  in,  with  sandals  torn, 
Came  a  pilgrim,  travel-worn. 
A  burden  at  his  back  he  bare, 
And  coldly  said,  "My  name  is  Care  !" 
Plodding  and  weary  years  he  brought, 
And  a  pillow  worn  with  ceaseless  thought ; 

And  bade  his  votary  ask  of  Fame, 
Or  Wealth,  or  wild  Ambition's  claim, 
Payment  for  the  toil  he  taught. 


MAN'S   THREE   GUESTS.  407 

But  dark  with  dregs  was  the  cup  he  quaff' d, 

And  mid  his  harvest  proud 
The  mocking  tare  looked  up  and  laugh'd 

Till  his  haughty  heart  was  bow'd, 
And  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  hung,  and  o'er  his  path  a  cloud. 

Again,  a  knocking  at  the  gate 

At  the  wintry  eventide, 
And  querulous  was  the  voice  that  cried, 

"Who  cometh  here  so  late?" 
"  Ho  !  rouse  the  sentinel  from  his  sleep, 
Strict  guard  at  every  loop-hole  keep !" 
And  "man  the  towers !"  he  would  have  said, 
But  alas !  his  early  friends  were  dead, 
And  his  eagle  glance  was  .awed, 
And  a  frost  that  never  thaw'd 

Had  settled  on  his  head. 
But  that  thundering  at  the  gate 
From  morn  till  midnight  late, 

Knew  no  rest, 
And  a  boding  tone  of  fate, 
Like  an  owlet's  cry  of  hate, 

Chill'd  his  breast. 
Yet  he  raised  the  palsied  hand, 
And,  eager,  gave  command 
To  repel  the  threatening  guest. 


408  MAN'S   THREE   GUESTS. 

So  the  Esculapian  band, 

In  their  armour  old  and  tried, 
Were  summon'd  to  his  side, 
And  the  watchful  nurses  came, 
Whose  lamp,  like  vestal  flame, 

Never  died. 

But  the  tottering  bulwarks  their  trust  betray 'd, 
And  the  old  man  groan'd  as  a  breach  was  made ; 
Then  through  the  chasm  a  skeleton  foot 

Forced  its  way, 

And  a  fleshless  hand  to  a  shaft  was  put, 
And  he  was  clay. 


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